Blind Bird

Angie’s blind eyes wander aimlessly in their sockets, one white as the belly of a snake, the other a pointless blue. She has one dress she wears every day, and a cane that is without tip and has lost most of its red paint. In the building she has memorized even the pale illusions well enough to scoot about without hesitation. She likes no one. She likes me. Thinks she is JFK, talks of herself quite lucidly and with deadly accurateness. Found herself a spirit-lover, asked me to perform a marriage ceremony for them. It’s a sad life with no one in it, although that does not apply to me, who loves my self-imposed isolationism beyond reason. I find a pretty stone broach, a stuffed teddy bear holding a red satin heart that says, “I love you…” and a doll with ribbons in its hair - these were her dowry. I say the words over my open Bible, inviting blasphemy to call out my name. Now, she has become a Velcro-shadow. When I am ill her zeal to cure me is fanaticism incarnate. Foolish woman, I - who chose her own path to trod, but along the way tripped over a crippled bird that is sure to peck her to death.