Kathi Wolfe

from the Uppity Blind Girl poems

Uppity's New Year's Resolution

Okay, Babycakes!

I'll stop blowing smoke in your eyes.

I wouldn't want your bloodshot itchiness

to cloud your view of my red stillettos.

Honey, ciggies don't bother

my peepers.  I just wrap myself

around my London Fog and trip

the light

fantastic like Ginger, Kate, Bette –

all those Hollywood babes.  I love

to blow smoke rings,

especially,

if they cloud

the whites of the bad guys eyes.

But, for you, Sweetie,

I'll inhale

slowly,

and puff discreetly,

content to remain

in black and white,

off-screen.

(Originally published in Disability Studies Quarterly.)

Dining with the Green-Eyed Monster

I didn't invite her to dinner,

but there she was: pulling

up a velvet chair, sitting down,

munching kale chips,

sipping Emerald ale.

You're spared the sight

of my verdant eyes,

the monster said,

but my jade fangs lust for you.

Who would want to tryst

with such a beast?

Still, I remembered:

the things I couldn't see

from Yellow cabs to indigo trees;

the people who denied

my Third Eye

and thrived

like downy kudzu on the vine;

the day my sister Justine

danced at her junior prom

and I missed the word praline

at the eighth grade spelling bee;

the night Sabrina,

after too many tequila shots,

kissed another girl.

I'll never accept your venomous caresses,

I told the monster, but let's enjoy this feast.

Sabrina's Song for Uppity

My porcupine, my Turkish Delight,

my Braille-powered whirlwind,

you jump-started my night into day –

scattering the jigsaw pieces of my self

from Chelsea to the gods' hideaway.

In the beginning, you, a dark rainbow,

eclipsed the sun.  I dreamed your cane,

a sword, made me run – that I turned

into salt when I looked into your eyes.

Until, your sleight of hand morphed my

nightmares into summer night's dreams.

Baking me lasagna, massaging

my headaches away – walking

on Broadway as if you owned

this town – you knocked my terrors,

(smack!) on to the ground.

October 2014