Guide Dog
He's a celebrity on trains,
an unexpected guest at restaurants
where he lies still as the table legs
that frame his sprawled form.
There's a jaunt to his walk
as he guides you past sign posts,
weaves through rush hour streets
so that no one so much as brushes
your sleeve. That's your best friend
strangers are compelled to tell you,
your eyes mothers explain to their brood.
One girl spouts, dogs can see color,
thinking he knows the light is now green.
It's a though, blind, you can't possibly
stand at the helm, carefully listening,
giving commands. Or perhaps
these passers-by are merely wishful,
in love with the thought of someone
infallible leading the way.
Hemiplegia I
A rubber band, wormlike,
I can distinguish.
But button, coin, stone,
a vague weight in my palm.
Eyes closed, I want
to get it right, guess
the trinket my mother chose.
Finally she moves it
to my able hand
where, ridged, rounded, warm,
it becomes what it is.
What it was all along.
Hemiplegia II
Under the glide of my left palm,
the cool skin of your back.
Under the flat of my right, this fact,
you're solid, you're here.
Under my roaming left,
ridges that make up your spine.
Under my quiet right,
you're solid, you're here.
My left hand finds a field,
fine semicircles of hair.
My right hand, pressing you close,
knows this: you're solid, you're here.
Lesson One
Palsy, hemiplegia. I didn't know the words
but could ask why I felt less on the right.
Your heart's on the left, she said.
Like everyone's. Like Everyone.
For awhile, I believed no one could tell
warm from cool when water hit the right palm,
or feel, in those five fingers, doll hair
as soft and separate strands.
Life without life's details on that side.
But what of this detail: my mother lied.
Perhaps she wanted to give pain only
the briefest glance, to avoid talk of damage
with the damaged one, hoped to deflect
the thought of daughter as mirror,
yet remain half numb.