The girl stands motionless,
a burnt offering,
as the cold passes quickly
over her aching shoulder blades.
She can barely feel the chill.
Her limbs are numb from beating
old wounds back to life, clinging
to them like a gritty love affair.
She molds herself into crude images,
dirty and twisted from the feet up,
stuck in an old worn skin she depends upon
for the familiar rhythm of pain.
She longs to feel the ease of youth, step in
tandem with the freedom of forgetfulness,
but she is dressed in shadows,
addicted to the dark.
Susan Richardson is living, writing and going blind in Los Angeles. She shares a home with an Irishman, 2 pugs and 2 cats. She was diagnosed with Retinitis Pigmentosa in 2002, and in addition to poetry also writes a blog called Stories from the Edge of Blindness.
