Living blind
can turn a simple grocery run
into an altar call.

Enter good Samaritan:
no introduction,
just a hand on my arm
and a prayer
for my sight,
my wholeness,
to be restored.

Am I not whole?

My eyes took early retirement,
but that doesn't make me
tragic,
less than;
I am
a collage of scars
and stories,
of train rides and tea leaves.
I've had a good life,
a hard life,
a full life.

Today, I can't
find it in me
to gently correct her;
in society's eyes, I am
made invisible one moment
and spotlighted the next,
ready either to stand back
or stand out.
The pressures imposed
by ableism,
by tokenism,
by forced intimacy,
by duty to educate,
are enough to render me
diamond-rough.

Her words come from the heart,
and in a world
where people are quick
to say hateful things,
her intentions
are truly refreshing;
but I wish she didn't equate
seeing
with being
whole.

Of course,
I believed the same once.
When I was small, I hoped
for an unneeded cure.
Now, I find purpose
in every aspect of my being;
even with my faith
as upside-down and questioning
as Scorpio,
I still sometimes think
that everything is
for a reason, a season—
certainly not
meaningless
as Solomon claimed.

Whether seeing is believing
or believing is seeing,
I find myself
praying to her god,
asking him
to remove the scales
from her eyes,
to smooth
the rough path between us,,
to help me forgive her,
for she knows not
what she's done.