– on being asked to leave a poetry workshop because I am blind

“I am not used to blind poets,”
says the teacher, his Ray-Ban
sunglasses sliding off his nose,
“they’re flying in the dark,
landing who knows where,
right in your face,
in your hair – on your stairs.”

Homer in his Red Baron jacket
hits turbulence over Troy.
Milton and Satan lock wings,
turn somersaults on the runway.
Borges nosedives into his labyrinth.

My plane wobbles, hits an airpocket.
I worry: how will I braille the sky?
Until my radar, a sleek-winged, dapper
bat, flies in.  I soar over my coffee, hear
the echo of the Northern Lights in its cream.

by Kathi Wolfe
from Split This Rock