Blink

It takes one third of a second

for the human eye to blink, open and close.

But imagine the eternity that follows

each night when they forget to open,

a blindness solved only by morning light.

What happens in that darkness is

impossible to explain.

I’m the only witness.

A cosmic location joke,

but I didn’t know it at the time.

At the time there were only his hands

following the curve of my spine,

becoming familiar with each ridge and notch and bump.

A map made of vertebrae

that could explain why  

all the dogs barked the wrong name and

all the birds sounded sweeter,

beaks crusted in sugar while they watched from the trees.

What I wouldn’t give to know what they ate.

About the Author

Kate Knab is a sophomore English major with a concentration in Creative Writing. She enjoys reading books with real pages and has big plans for becoming Queen of the North. So far, she has been to more countries than states, but still can’t figure out how to work public transportation. If this writing thing doesn’t pan out, she’ll end up busking in the streets of Venice with her kazoo.