Beginning at the End ~ 1984

“I’m the most desperate, lonely woman you will ever meet in your life, and I am blind. There is nothing more lonely than blind desperate loneliness. And I want them to feel it. I want them to know my loneliness.”
— K. E. Hansen

In the book you always hoped
to write, your life began with “The End,”
the day you lost your sight,
surgery meant to cure.
Those first weeks, you ignored doctors’
gloom and waited, expecting
any day for your sight
to return, to see again the red
roller coaster near your favorite surfing spot,
the pine green specks
in your boyfriend’s light brown eyes,
the charcoal you were using in your last sketch,
you now will never finish.

But the first time you are left
alone in the darkness you will see
for the rest of your life,
you feel a loneliness so profound, isolation
that nothing twenty-eight years
of sunlight and starlight
have prepared you for.

You feel buried alive,
trapped and terrified, alone and aware
as you will be until the day you die
that the world as you loved it
continuing around you
is gone to you forever.

Frantic at the thought of living
your life through,
you stumble around your mother’s home,
groping for the switches,
turning on every light you can find
with each flip praying
this will be the one.

When you knock over a china lamp,
which breaks apart at your feet,
you begin to cry, tears that tumble
down your cheeks for days,
and you crumble to the floor, screaming
to God, the questions you will ask
again and again, “Why? Why have you
done this? Why have you kept me
half dead?"

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.

The Men: Chapter 4 (& 5) ~ 2000

“The only thing I remember about being with Tony was that he changed positions constantly.”

“Rick was bisexual and sometimes that was hard to handle because I’m not used to competing with men.”

“I just don’t get it—I just don’t get it. I feel like I’m constantly being tested. I feel like I’m going to scream—give me a break, God. Give me a break. And then I found out Martin’s coming over tonight.”

— K. E. Hansen

Lying in lingerie,
as you often do in the middle
of the day, you work on The Men
chapter of your autobiography, drafting
in your head, trying to decide how many
can you include, how steamy
should you go. Even leaving out
a few dozen,
sometimes you aren’t sure you’ll be able
to fit the men you’ve loved
in one chapter.

They drift in and out like lifeboats,
docking at your heart,
roping round your body,
then cutting loose after a few
months, most unable to sustain
attachment through the diabetes tidal wave
surging through your life.

With names spanning the alphabet,
and life stories as varied,
the man in your life gives you
energy when you’re down,
someone to look forward to,
phone calls, shared meals,
and warm nights
when your hands can explore
the length and depth of his body,
massage head to toe
face, arms, hands, chest, legs, feet,
express through your fingers
and lips
the joy you feel
in seeing
him,
blindness disappearing in darkness
as you take in with touch
features and contours
of another.

Most float out of your life one night
to the next, but a few stay through passion
and pain to weather a relationship.
Kevin, seven years younger
still living with his parents,
stays over one night with his guitar
and doesn’t leave till two years later.
Zack, a biker with serpent tattoos, loves you
with a steely tenderness,
seeing you through the turmoil
of the two amputations and the stroke,
without breaking open
his own heart.

Yet best for last, comes Martin.
Your cab driver
as you depart from a three-month stint
at a convalescent hospital, the two of you bond
over Buddhism, he a lifelong student,
you a Christian learning Buddhism
in the everyday challenge of living
in your body, letting go of who you were
and wanted to be, every day a giving up
and getting up.

Twenty years your senior,
Martin calls you his “girl,”
introduces you to Chai,
reads to you on Saturday afternoons,
and even when he gets a “lady friend” in his life,
remains a phone call away day or night,
to reassure you that this body
is only a suitcase
for your soul,
waiting to be
unpacked.

Cherishing you like no other,
to the end he takes you to Pleasure Point,
a spot where you used to surf,
still your favorite place in the world.
Sitting on a bench overlooking the ocean,
air thick with seagulls, sea spray, sea scent,
he describes the shade that day,
cobalt blue, dark turquoise, jade green,
and together you gaze out at the surfers,
lying on their boards, waiting
and waiting for the right wave,
then all at once paddling, crouching,
and finally, braced and balanced in the wind,standing at last.

Bird of Paradise ~ 2002

“There is no ugly flower on earth. They are all beautiful, and they know to look to the sun for their light.”
— K. E. Hansen

 

I wheel you into the sunny courtyard, a fusion
of bromeliads, ferns, palms. A dozen doors look
into the courtyard, yet I’ve never seen anyone
emerge. Residents lie wilted
in their beds.

Angling your wheelchair to maximize sun
and sitting on a bench nearby, I remember
many times I’ve sat with you as you sunbathed,
your skin, soaked
in lavender lotion, bronzing in the heat.
Stretched out bikini-clad,
you would tell me about your latest love.
Corey. Todd. Max. Names changed
often, your excitement
never did. We are quiet
now.

Planted in this nursing home, unwillingly
uprooted, you know well what's
ahead: TV (Animal Planet or Jeopardy),
dinner hour (corned beef or turkey), sleeping pill
(one—or two, if you get lucky). Your roommate
no longer speaks. Next door,
a woman in her nineties wails
for her mother, long since dead.

Yet at this moment,
past and future melting,
you lift
your face to the sun, brilliant
smile unfolding,
simply absorbing,
drinking warmth,
finding the nutrients
in the earth of your life.