The boy with no eyes once climbed a tree
against a mother’s scolding:
Trees are dangerous. They are for birds.
They are not for boys without eyes.
But what of the birds without any eyes?
Child, birds with no eyes die young in their nests.
The boy wished to find a sightless bird,
to warm it in his pocket.
The boy wished to taste the roughness of bark,
and so the boy climbed a tree.
The boy first circled the Mulberry Tree,
his hand tasting blindly the salt of its bark.
He felt pulled towards the birds above his head, he could
hear them, for even in the womb, he had listened.
The boy with no eyes climbed with ear, heart, lung,
higher, higher, until his sneakered foot – slipped.
And as the boy with no eyes fell from the tree,
he understood why birds spread their wings to fly.
And as the boy split his knee on the surfaced roots below,
he understood what release truly felt like.
He decided that blood
tasted better than juice in a box,
without its straw,
for without eyes, a straw could be dangerous.
And you, my child, are without.
He decided that blood felt softer
than the padded corners
about his room,
for without eyes, corners could be ugly.
And you, my child, are without.
As the boy with no eyes on the ground felt the blood
beat faster about his wounds,
his sightless bird flew down from its nest, and pocketed
itself in the hollow of his heart, singing:
Boy, now you see, with no eyes, still you see,
ever more than the woman who birthed you.