DSQ > Spring 2008, Volume 28, No.3
Kathi Wolfe is a poet and writer. She was a finalist in the 2007 Pudding House Press Chapbook Competition. Her chapbook Helen Takes the Stage: The Helen Keller Poems was published in 2008 by Pudding House Press. Wolfe's poetry has appeared in Wordgathering, Breath & Shadow, Gargoyle, Potomac Review, Beltway Poetry Quarterly and other publications. She has read at the Library of Congress Poetry at Noon Series and appeared on the public radio show "The Poet and the Poem."

from the Uppity Blind Girl poems

My passport

to the Land of Darkness

has expired.

You think I'm musical,

I write opera

for the tone-deaf.

In fact, the gods

cut off their ears

when they hear me sing.

I stare back

as you gaze into my face,

mining crows feet

for some inner vision.

I do not want

to feel your face.

Believe me, I

don't live in a veil

of tears

because I can't see

your pores.

You long

to sew me up

as you'd mend

your torn Raggedy Anne doll.

But I don't want

to be sewn up.

I'm my own puppet.

I pull my own strings.

from the Uppity Blind Girl poems

Uppity Blind Girl's New Year's Resolution

OK, Babycakes!

I'll stop blowing smoke in your eyes.

I wouldn't want your bloodshot itchiness

to cloud your view of my red stiletto heels.

Honey, ciggies don't bother

my peepers. I just wrap myself

around my London Fog and trip

the light

fantastic like Ginger, Kate, Bette and all

those Hollywood babes. I love

to blow smoke rings,

especially,

if they cloud

the whites of the bad guys' eyes.

You've got to admit,

that is a glow-in-the-dark

victory.

But, for you, Sweetlips,

I'll inhale

slowly,

and puff discreetly,

content to remain in black-

and-white, off-screen.

from the Uppity Blind Girl poems

Uppity Blind Girl Talks to Mr. Faith Healer

Relax, mister you don't have to shout like you're on a cell

in a rain forest filled with screeching monkeys. I can hear

a pin drop off the head of an angel. You say, you're God's

Mouthpiece, I'm a mote in your eye, that I'll have to get off

your street, if I don't pray as fast as a microwave, as hard

as the muscled abs of the latest hunk, to be made whole.

For my eyes to be opened.

Whoa! Time-out, mister, breathe!

You've got a good baritone, now that you're not screaming

like a game show contestant. Your hat just blew off your head,

falling under my feet. Don't your teeth hurt in this cold? Mister,

your soul could fly away, you've been in this wind, so long!

Time to take your blinkers off.

Mister, as a child, I taught my sister

to drink out of the dog's dish. I forgot to bring my mom

the turquoise nightgown she wanted in the hospital. If envy

were a sport, I'd get the gold, and I wouldn't need steroids.

I bet you, too, are an Olympian. Hold out your hands,

may I touch your stigmata?

Errata note: Wolfe's poems were originally slated to appear as part of the Spring 2008 issue's special feature section on poetry but due to editorial oversight, they were not included there.
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