Like a pushpin pricks cork,
you invade the fields of my vision,
compelling me to flee into your dark crevices
and immerse myself in the task of
becoming a blind person.
You are the twisting vines that
choke the break of day and steal
the contours of sidewalks and faces.
Lurking in dimly lit corridors,
you swallow the edges of the world
and pull the ground out from under my feet.
You throw me into endless collisions,
spill me down stairwells,
your signature emblazoned on
bruised hands and skinned knees.
You sneak and creep and
slam me into darkened walls.
I am chained and bound by you.
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.