I Blinked

I blinked and no more fingertips. All hand lines, palm

and tendons all the way down the finger,       first digit

second digit,      and then empty air. I could still grab things,

full fisted, but couldn’t feel the grooved finger music, that

vibrational      conversation      we have with guitars and

doorknobs. It may have happened like falling in love,

a little then all at once,      with dry mouth and

ringing ears, the ocean gulping the space around

claustrophobia      swallow      swallow

will the rest of me fade away too?

I invested in some gloves. Opera gloves, thin cotton

gloves, soft woolen gloves with sticky traction fingers.

There aren’t people to go to with these problems of

lightness, of numbness     of lack. They blink

and stutter      and connect the dots, this

phenomenon of absence. No.

Better to find flesh paint, get the mixing tray

wait for the air and the deadness to reach past the elbows,

but the disappearing wasn’t linear this way, it was,

so cruelly, sensitivity centered. The earlobes

and the tip of the tongue, the clitoris and the arch

of the foot. The space ate away at me,

an edible woman      becoming empty.

[This poem is a brief investigation into a character of mine named Felicity. She’s disappearing. Thanks for reading. Also: Thanks to Julien Blundell (fellow poet magician) for the writing prompt of “I blinked” which inspired my writing.

Love from Boulder,

Miss Sara]


2 thoughts on “I Blinked

  1. An inspired doodle-reply,

    You blinked and I went
    missing. Every stretch mark
    thinned and every freckle,
    all the ways they arrange
    themselves across my cheeks,
    fell flat in the face of your blindness.

    You’re perfect, I love you, I have an idea…

    Baby E


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