the dark

no, my grandfather says, he did not ask
his friend what it was like to be blind.
I feel I would have known how. 
I speak a different language.

see, there are sins of commission,
I try to tell him, and sins of omission.
I have been having trouble with my eyes,
miscommunications with the world as it appears
sometimes I see a thousand spots of white
dust mites maybe, clouds invading from the periphery.
I don’t know how this began. I find it impossible to describe.
my grandfather wears glasses. he does not look at me once.

the dinner is already getting cold,
she is already long gone,
it is much better not to talk about these things,
put the picture safely in the attic.

no, he did not ask his friend what it was like,
but the dark must have enveloped every room she entered.

I did not know her, but I think I can recall
at least a similar sound.

Like a cry echoing in a cave,
something only to be accepted.

©2023 Niall Cunningham