Friends for Life ~ 1988

“I believe in people. I may not understand why the heck they do what they do, but I believe in them.”
— K.E. Hansen

The first time I see you, I determine
I do not want
to know
you.

Outside of a summer school class,
before the first session, you stand
secure in a swarm
of fellow students, they taking turns questioning,
“What’s your guide dog’s name?”
“Can I pet him?”
“How old is he?”

You answer warmly, sometimes laughing loud
and long, head thrown back with the confidence
of someone who knows
people will wait,
want more.

You are wearing a black leather miniskirt,
a crimson low-cut top, a black
shiny belt, and cherry red
pumps. At your side, your guide dog Danny,
a black lab, sits obediently.
Later you will tell me
that you always wear
at least one black
accessory, not just because black
“never goes out of style”
but also because wearing black
keeps you and Danny always
color coordinated.

Like moths at a light,
students keep surrounding
while I steadfastly step
inside the classroom,
burying myself in a book, putting you,
too bold and brash,
out of my mind.

Corner of my eye
minutes later,
I see your guide dog
leading you,
one trusting high-heeled step at a time,
straight to my side,
and I watch you touch
for the chair next to me,
feeling your way into my life,
bringing the brightest smile
I’ve ever seen,
a sunray spread surrendering me,
as I hear you ask,
“Is this seat taken?”

As If You Always Will ~ 1992

“Over twenty-five operations and losing my sight, this scares me most. I keep touching it. I can’t believe it will be gone tomorrow. I keep telling myself God must have a plan.”
— K. E. Hansen

Night before surgery, you tell me you’re scared,
really scared. Through four years’
friendship and more health scares
than I can count, I’ve never heard
you say this.

In the Christmas photo you sent
this year, you frolic
with your guide dog on the beach.
Clad in a white tank top and rolled-up jeans,
you stand balanced
in the surf, knees bent, back arched,
arm poised to throw
a stick. Your honey-colored hair streams
in the wind, water rushes round toned,
tanned calves. Below the photo, your words,
“Lover of life, come dance with me.”

Days after surgery, you’re bantering
already, asking your nurse,
“Could you check with the doctors
A-SAP
to see if hair is going to grow
out of my stump
and when I can shave
it?”

Below the knee, your right leg
gone, thick cover of bandages crisscrossing
the amputation site.
Intense pain
comes and goes.
You swear
you’re going to dance
again. Soon.
In your red pumps.

You have to settle
for black boots.
Against doctors’ wishes,
you’re dancing months
later, a benefit you’ve organized.
Doctors warn: injure remaining ankle,
may lose that foot, too,
skin so slow to heal,
steroid-brittle bones
caving in.

But tonight,
swaying to Kenny Loggins
in your boyfriend’s arms,
prosthetic leg barely noticeable beneath
black lace stockings,
pain of the last months
hidden in your laughter,
you draw all eyes in the room,
dancing lightly, naturally, blissfully,
as if you always will.

Seeing Straight ~1995

"I think I am the only one on the planet who asked Santa for a pair of bluer eyes and longer legs and actually got them.”
— K. E. Hansen

“Are my eyes straight?”
you ask, turning to look
at me, trusting
and expectant.

In the sunlight, I can see the fine blonde hair
on the side of your face, the deep v-indent
in the center of your upper lip,
the long lashes, curled and darkened,
lining your blue
eyes. Without boundaries
of eye contact,
I look into your face
as into no other.

“I think your left
is upside down.”

When I met you I did not know,
as others don’t,
your eyes are glass,
hand-painted striations so delicate and beautiful,
their surface reflects light
like a blue dawn.

Turning to slip
your eye out, you chuckle.
“I was just thinking about that time
with the study group.”

You were prepping for a final
when another student in the group 
made you laugh,
hard.

No warning,
your right eye flew
out of its socket
to
you-had-no-idea-where.

You heard a few chokes,
then silence.

Seeing straight

to humor, 
a lens you keep always 
in your sight,
you asked, "Has anyone happened
to run across
my eye?"

Perfect Match ~ 1990's

"Can you come over as soon as possible? It’s important. I have to get to the mall.” 

— K. E. Hansen

By the time you ask, "What shade?"
my mind is already darting
forward, trying to find language
for what my eyes distinguish
without words.
I’m tempted
to just say "crimson,"
a word I’ve heard you use,
a member of the brilliant red
family, I’m pretty sure,
but knowing you
double-check your colors
with several sources,
can’t chance it.

"Uh . . . I’d say somewhere between
a fire engine
and fresh blood.
Approximately."

We’ve been shopping an hour
already, Gottschalk’s, Mervyns, Macy’s,
navigating narrow aisles,
exploring clothing jungles,
you, mapping, commanding, gripping
my arm,
me, steering, describing, trying to prevent
clothing-rack collisions.

Before going blind, you dreamed of fashion
design. And if I asked you today,
you could catalog the catch
from years past. The swarm of skin-tight
jeans. The flock of camis.
The herd of heels.
You design on your body,
carefully comparing, combining, creating
in your head before making
the final call.

“You mean scarlet,” you correct
me now, tone taut. "Let me

see." You often offer spur-
of-the-moment style tips.

Handing you the cotton stretch

“can’t be more than 3% spandex” top
to survey, I am delighted to avoid a grilling
about the cut, and I watch your fingers
systematically investigate
the neckline, sleeves, hem,
then slowly travel
across the front, over the back.

“I’m not sure it will work with my cream

cardigan. What’s your

take?"

At this moment, my mind goes
blank. A cardigan . . . ?
I wear black most days.
I spend less
than one minute, covering
myself with clothes.
I have never had the nerve
to tell you I did not know
until I met you
it was possible
for shades of black
not to match.

"It seems like a risk," I say finally, unwilling
to accept responsibility
should a clash
be reported.

“Too bad,” you say. “We’ll have to
keep hunting. How about hitting
Juniors?”

“Let’s not forget
Ross,” I respond, half-masochist,
half-grateful, knowing
we’re
running out of stores.