Blind, Kind Of

BLIND, KIND OF

Mimi’s eyes were fine but she was blind. 

The part of her mind, dad explained, 

responsible for taking what she saw

and seeing it. Genetic, we know

now—traceable up the Coggshall line, 

and likely, leaving South Carolina and crossing

the Red Sea, running through Moses 

even, (her son-in-law’s namesake,) who just

once could see a bush for what it was. 

Sometimes I ponder this, my inheritance. 

Sometimes I wonder if my little daughter,

at two—were I able to remove, like leather

sandals, this skin inhibiting the view—

would now be running round the living room 

in a crackling ball of flame. 

If this page, your hands, would do the same.