Curing Blindness
by Anne Higgins

Vertical rain shears the
dirt from the amulet
found in the garden -
how long was it there?

I know no physicians
can fill in the macular
hole in my retina -
how can they dare

to tell me to live with it?
Clutching the talisman,
feeling the stone and the round heavy gold,
reverting to magic
when medicine fails me,
I press my eye to
its unpromising cold.

Magic has failed me
and retinal experts,
for still the grey slipper
resides in my view.
Bury the amulet,
live the periphery,
mourning the wholeness
I thought I once knew.

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