Zahir

He holds my hand like an injured pigeon.

Heart beating like a sparrow I lead him
across the MRT, two guys entwined by
a hand. My eyes are daggers piercing off
unwanted stares. I ask him for destination.

“Bus stop outside,” he smiles, handsome 20s
guy in sunshades, one side attached with
audio device to track his tapping stick.

Handsome blind fellow in sunshades I lead
him to the bus stop. We talk as we go along:
sadness, loss of sight, childhood trauma, thick
glasses, surgery, less sadness, acceptance

of the permanent

abyss

of vision.

“I’m working at a restaurant,” he says. His eyes
are phantoms; his lips curl in a grin that’s
whiplashed
the worst of chagrin.

He tells me he’s getting
married in three months, his fiancé
having weighed the loss and gains of

blind spots: how passersby passed him on
like temporal caretakers at strange locations,
finally into her good hands. He whispers
a prayer of gratitude at my appearance.
His eyes, like his heart, are oceans.

I ask how he sees the bus numbers.
“Oh, I ask people, you know,” he shrugs,
oblivious of the sea choking up my chest.