Black

Photo: © Stefan Hengst. All rights reserved.

Blind from birth he asked me to describe the color red
I spoke to him of the heat of fire
The sting of bees and
The piercing of tender fingers by thorns
He nodded then replied, I think I can see it

And now, please tell me of the color yellow
I spoke of sunlight warming skin
The thickness of honey poured over fresh baked bread
The tickle of a flower playfully rubbed across one’s nose
He smiled then replied, I think I can see it

Now the color white, so many things seem to be white
I rubbed my chin with my forefinger unsure of how to start
I spoke of ice cubes cooling a glass of lemonade
Of walking early morning on icy ceramic tiles
Of a sunless winter’s day as the wind blows cold on tender cheeks
He laughed out loud remembering his girl-like squeal the first morning his bare feet hit the freezing floor and replied, I can clearly see that one

What of this black I’ve often heard of?
That is the easiest of all, I beamed
What you presently see, the nothingness that
Pulls you toward the ground, tugs the rug from under
Your feet and stifles your breath, that’s black
He shook his head mystified at my words and replied,
That, my dear friend, I cannot see.

 

by Arlene Antoinette

 

Arlene Antoinette.jpgArlene Antoinette is a poet of West Indian birth who grew up in Brooklyn, New York. She graduated from Brooklyn College and worked as an instructor with disabled individuals for many years. You may find additional work by Arlene at Foxglove Journal, Little Rose Magazine, I am not a silent Poet, Tuck Magazine, The Feminine Collective, The Open Mouse, Amaryllis Poetry, Boston Accent Lit, Sick Lit Magazine, Postcard Shorts, 50 Word Stories, The Ginger Collect, Neologism Poetry Journal and Your Daily Poem.

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