Invisible

While my youngest, my last, plays
in the yard, I take the microscope
from under his bed and
examine purpose.

In the kitchen, after everyone
has gone, I put perseverance
on the counter and slice it
until it’s transparent.

While waiting up for my husband
to come home from places
he won’t name, I open the drawer
for the flashlight, to study respect.

I want to know it well enough
to explain to him in his language.

Before bed, I check all the locks on
the doors and windows
and hold gratitude
for what has been taken.

All the words, all the
knowledge,
will not make me visible.

I want to be touched.
I want to hear my name.

How can you have a problem with pie?

He's been legally blind for five years
and still he makes art – incredible, celebrated art
that he will never see.

So she should bring him cake
when he asks for it.

But she brings home only pie.

It's true, she has some night blindness
and her ability
to drive is greatly diminished.

She fears accidents the entire time
she is making out her shopping list
to the time
she is back in her chair, feet up.

She has no choice.
He can't drive and if he were to go
with her, besides the extra twenty minutes
it would take to get him in the car,
she would have to watch him.

He falls. He wanders. He talks to people.

She won't get home until dark,
certainly increasing the odds of a mishap
on the road and on the way
into the house.

So he stays
and she brings back pie.

And then they argue about the reasons,
59 years of them.

Until he makes his way down to the basement
to work on his sculpture

and she is safely in her lounger,
feet up in in front of Dr. Phil or Oprah,
with a cup of tea and a slice of pumpkin,
when it's in season.

Michael writes to break things so he can look into them and be further mystified. He’s published in elephant journal, Every Day Poets, Awaken Consciousness Magazine, Forge, OutsideIn Magazine, and other nice places. He invites you to follow him @michaelgrow so he can follow you, in case he gets lost.