December 28, 2008

Paradox of Plenty (The Blind Leading The . . . )

There is a scarf across my eyes,
black and silky; I wore it once,
I think,
to the office, or maybe
to deceive you, but now

you've tied it around my eyes.
But you didn't tie it
tightly enough; enough
light fingers in
at the edges to know

where I am,
with a black scarf across my eyes,
and a ribbon whimsically looped
around each wrist and ankle.
Ah, our props are pretty.

You are closer now, I see
the color of your skin edging
the blindfold. You twist my hair around your hand
and pull; you place your fingers on my mouth
and stretch it into screaming shape, and then

you pause. I know,
you will not do anything you have not done,
and maybe less than ever,
for when you are given everything,
you are unable to take anything.

It is the burden of choice.
It is the waste of surrender.
It is the paradox of plenty.
It is the secret of the cornered.
It is the weapon of the cold.

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