I am in the wheelchair
outside on a lawn
(I suppose that
as I am blind
and cannot see),
and Jean sits beside me,
having just arrived.
A blanket covers
the stumps of my legs
from her sight.
What's he like?
I ask her.
Who is like?
she says.
Philip Kimberly;
what does he look like?
I say.
I hear her breathe deeply
and shift in the chair.
He's dark haired,
clean shaven
and good looking,
I'd say,
Jean replies.
I try to picture him
by her description,
but fail,
I am not used
to putting together
a mental image as yet.
He seems nice;
he says he works
for the Foreign office,
is that so?
I ask.
Guy says he does
so I guess he does,
Jean says,
does it matter
where he works?
I sense irritation
in her voice.
Anything the matter?
I say.
She sighs.
I listen extra hard
in case I miss any words.
No and yes,
she says.
That's a contradiction;
what is the matter then?
I turn toward her voice
as she speaks to give
the impression that I can
see although I can't.
Seeing you like this
upsets me,
she says.
It doesn't please me
none either,
I say,
reaching out
for her hand
and touch her knee
and remove my hand.
I picture you as you were
and as you are now
and it pains me,
she says.
Why come then?
I say before I can
stop myself.
Because you're an old friend
and a friend of Donald's,
she says touching
my hand and holding it
between her fingers.
That is how I am now:
blind and legless
and who would want
a woman like that?
I say harshly.
Philip likes you
and wants to take you
out to dinner and maybe
a concert,
she says.
So he said,
I say,
not wanting to dwell on it
in case it doesn't happen.
He's spoken to your doctor
and is making arrangements
for transport and a suitable place,
she says softly.
I take her hand
and place it on the place
where my legs end.
I end here,
I say,
half a woman;
who'd want that?
She removes her hand
from my leg stumps
and stands up
and walks around me;
I hear the swish
of her coat going by me.
This is not like you,
she says,
this self pity,
this drowning in darkness.
I spit at the air,
hoping I have missed her.
This is not self pity,
this is my reality,
I say,
trying to take hold
of her coat or hand.
My hand sweeps around,
but she has gone;
only birds near by chirping,
distant traffic,
and a wind touching
my skin; digging at me
deep within.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 3:39 PM UTC
I am in the wheelchair
outside on a lawn
(I suppose that
as I am blind
and cannot see),
and Jean sits beside me,
having just arrived.
A blanket covers
the stumps of my legs
from her sight.
What's he like?
I ask her.
Who is like?
she says.
Philip Kimberly;
what does he look like?
I say.
I hear her breathe deeply
and shift in the chair.
He's dark haired,
clean shaven
and good looking,
I'd say,
Jean replies.
I try to picture him
by her description,
but fail,
I am not used
to putting together
a mental image as yet.
He seems nice;
he says he works
for the Foreign office,
is that so?
I ask.
Guy says he does
so I guess he does,
Jean says,
does it matter
where he works?
I sense irritation
in her voice.
Anything the matter?
I say.
She sighs.
I listen extra hard
in case I miss any words.
No and yes,
she says.
That's a contradiction;
what is the matter then?
I turn toward her voice
as she speaks to give
the impression that I can
see although I can't.
Seeing you like this
upsets me,
she says.
It doesn't please me
none either,
I say,
reaching out
for her hand
and touch her knee
and remove my hand.
I picture you as you were
and as you are now
and it pains me,
she says.
Why come then?
I say before I can
stop myself.
Because you're an old friend
and a friend of Donald's,
she says touching
my hand and holding it
between her fingers.
That is how I am now:
blind and legless
and who would want
a woman like that?
I say harshly.
Philip likes you
and wants to take you
out to dinner and maybe
a concert,
she says.
So he said,
I say,
not wanting to dwell on it
in case it doesn't happen.
He's spoken to your doctor
and is making arrangements
for transport and a suitable place,
she says softly.
I take her hand
and place it on the place
where my legs end.
I end here,
I say,
half a woman;
who'd want that?
She removes her hand
from my leg stumps
and stands up
and walks around me;
I hear the swish
of her coat going by me.
This is not like you,
she says,
this self pity,
this drowning in darkness.
I spit at the air,
hoping I have missed her.
This is not self pity,
this is my reality,
I say,
trying to take hold
of her coat or hand.
My hand sweeps around,
but she has gone;
only birds near by chirping,
distant traffic,
and a wind touching
my skin; digging at me
deep within.
