As I kneel beside the coreopsis,
my eyes snagged
by webs woven of light,
I think of the two Texan women
who plucked out their sister’s eyes.
They believed her possessed.

How singing psalms of praise,
they carried her to church
and were astounded
when the sheriff arrested them for assault.
They said, “We did it
because we loved her.”
My sisters love me, too --
have yet to pluck out my eyes,
though I know there have been times
when they were tempted.

The blind girl has hair blacker than mine,
wears tinted glasses to hide
her new moon sockets.
I want to tell her that according
to The Farmer’s Almanac, she will be fertile --
eyes planted in the dark of the moon
grow well,
but she knows nothing of gardening.

The blind girl weaves her hair
into dozens of braids,
each decorated with a moonstone bead
that glows like a gypsy’s ball.
Now, she can predict her future,
sees many things
she was oblivious to before,
and every midnight
the blind girl dreams of spiders --
known only by their velvet touch
and by the cool tingle
of webs pressed upon scarred cheeks.