After the Eclipse

It’s there, in our walk

around the crescent,

the sign a golden

diamond:

     Blind

     Child

     Area

Weathered from

exposure,

from the creep

of rust and age.

It’s been planted

here so long  

this sightless kid 

must be grown-

up;

so now we

look around us

left and right,

spy the houses

and their trees;

the veranda

on which he sits—

in the vivid

imagination

of our minds;

tinted Ray-Bans

on his eyes,

their black opacity;

in his lap

an open book,

the white of

pimply braille—

perhaps a 19^th-

century classic,

or the latest from

Stephen King,

subduing his depression,

his lack of meaningful

sex,

his hearing

sharp as ever,

as it was when he was

six,

right after he

lost his sight,

when the footsteps

of the aphids

piqued his ears,

the wings of moths

to follow, even spiders

threading webs;

and now,

if he could sense us:

the heaving

of our breath, the thump

of our assumptions,

bursting

through our chests

like the roar of an

atom bomb—

the flash of which

would blind us

unless we looked

the other way,

as we’ll do in just

a moment,

when we think we’ve

seen him waving

from a porch,

the one on which

he rocks, wistfully;

its creak that

lets us know

we have encroached.

©2025 Andreas Gripp

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