On Wednesdays, in her spare time, she stitches her
eyes shut with silver needles.
Funny, isn't she, humming to herself?
You would never think that inside her is a taxi whose
rider hasn't paid their fare.
Sometimes she feels like crying but those wounded eyes won't open,
for this is the curse of the blessed blind, the gifted sightless, the bruised winners.
Those tattoos on her hands only look like scars.
On Wednesdays she takes her dog to the park for a walk.
The dog never barks of pulls on the leash—she's trained him well.
She's trained us all well.
"Poor child," we whisper when she stumbles going up the stairs.
Little do we know, even the blind can catch gold coins in their hands.