IF I KNEW BRAILLE

Holly Day

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Poetry

December 2016

If I knew Braille, perhaps I could read

the graffiti of purple-mouthed limpets clinging

to old, sea-washed boulders

the secret Bibles of zebra mussels clinging to dry-docked boats the last, profound gasps of snails and slugs dried out in clumps on the sun-baked pavement in front of my house.

There may be language in the teetering piles of droppings

 

the rabbits have scattered throughout my yard

written in squirrel on the skin of half-nibbled tulip bulbs

lifted from the ground and carried into the trees

in the fresh pattern of teeth marks gnawed into the table leg

by the dog. I am missing too many important things

because I don’t know how to read.

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