Think of me as I was before,
blurred white space, how it bothered
you to look at me. Reach out in search
of a brush though you are losing your eyesight
as a woman loses change—through a small rip,
a collection hidden within the lining of a purse.
Layer the paint, green on top of green, brown
on brown. It’s like serving a loved one food,
always adding more though they ask you not to.
Show me that this has nothing to do with sight,
that memory is enough for us.
