by Anna Binkovitz
What is the smallest size they make those white canes in?
Would it have been better to find out earlier?
Isn’t it ironic, the writer
with the broken eyes? Isn’t it ironic,
I can’t really do this life alone anymore, and this
will keep me alone?
Will this keep me alone? Love?
How do I make this sound charming? Not a big deal,
deal breaker? Will you help me find
the words, his car? Doesn’t everyone hate
When will this be over?
How bad will it get?
Blind? Seeing eye dog? Cane? Blind?
What if I have children? Them too?
What will the look like? Will you tell me
when you meet them?
My siblings? Am I the only one?
Does this mean I’m done now, nothing
else can be hiding in my blood, right?
This is it?