Issue 46, 2006
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“The Blind are Sleeping” by Emily Fragos
Their heads tilt gently on the pillows of the field.
Their hands, gesturing at the out-of-sight
with inexhaustible fingers, rest still as cats—
self-contained, melancholy—beside their prone masters.
The emptied body accommodates the most mottled flesh,
the most hapless limb. The blood that stops is rich
and tender. The aroma of wet grass and turf upturned
is the odor of young men, flavor of salt storm, of shout.
The sun still above is huge and boiling. The heads of the blind
warm like stones, their pale stares mesmerized, forever entering.
Their faces, unadorned, are devoid of human adoration.
Their mouths part as if they could almost sing.
Let me breathe you, says the choirmaster, who paints eyes
on their lids, and the blind who sleep—fly out.