Vox Populi
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Alexis Rhone Fancher: Blind Man’s Bluff
There was no light coming in, he assured me. There was nothing to overcome. Think of it as an inundation, he said. Like kudzu. Like bankruptcy. Like love.
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I dated a blind man in the 80s. Tall, slender, he was easy on the eyes. When I asked him what it was like not to see, he told me to imagine not breathing. When I couldn’t, he told me to imagine a slowly deteriorating pinhole camera, with the dark encroaching. Like when you close your eyes before bed, he said, trying to be helpful. What’s the last thing you see? I didn’t answer. It was none of his business.
.
I kept closing my eyes, then opening them. Like a snapshot or a glimpse. I figured maybe I’d catch on. Maybe there were different means of perception. To make my point I grabbed his hand, spread the fingers, placed them on my skull. What do you see? I said. I moved his digits around my face like they were the finder on a Ouji board: forehead, cheeks, pouty lips, chin. He patted my long, dark hair. What does brunette feel like? I asked. He gave this some thought. Like no one had asked him what he saw, ever. If you’re really interested, he smiled. We could duct tape your eyes shut, see how long you’d last. I could feel the panic rise up in my throat. No, I said quickly. No.
.
It was late November, the evening sky black by 5pm. It’s getting dark earlier each night, he said. I almost asked him how he could tell, but I knew. He could feel the sun’s absence. I put Amy Winehouse’s Back to Black on the turntable. Then I reached for his hand, pulled him to me. Wanna dance? I asked. He was light on his feet, knew how to lead. I should have known.
Copyright 2023 Alexis Rhone Fancher
Alexis Rhone Fancher and her husband live and collaborate on the bluffs of San Pedro, CA, twenty five miles from downtown L.A. They have a spectacular view. Her poetry collections include Erotic: New and Selected.
Vox Populi 
Magnificent. Led me to think of “Cathedral” by Raymond Carver.
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I hadn’t thought of Carver’s story. Thanks, Alison.
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There’s a federal prison there. Terminal Island. A poem’s throw from San Pedro. I know it. Intimately. Although my view was less spectacular.
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You’ve had a long strange journey, Matthew.
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Indeed. Speaking of which, I began reading “Bicycles.” Love it so far. Deliciously absurd.
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Thanks, Matthew. I wrote it as a satire of Christianity that would piss off my brother who’s a theologian. Turns out he loves it.
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Yes. I’m aware of this. They call it a “Federal Detention Center”- a fancy name for prison. We live high on the bluffs and can see Terminal Island from our terrace.
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That’s because there’s a county jail built right in. The main yard is an FCI-Federal Correctional Institute, with correction used rather loosely, of course. It is federal, however, so was a rather pleasant place to do time, aside from the violence, which was off the charts there. But that was in 1988. Not sure what’s going on there these days. It was old even back then. Jeffrey McDonald was there, from Janet Malcolm’s “The Journalist and the Murderer.” He was also at FCI Phoenix, another one of my haunts. When I was a grad student at Columbia in 2008, that book was assigned in one of my classes, and I was able to announce, very casually, “Oh. I did time with that guy.” Blew all their minds. Andrew Daulton Lee, aka The Snowman, was also there, who works for Sean Penn these days.
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Wow! Those were the days, yes? I remember the McDonald case. You have an interesting story to tell.
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Indeed. Much of it was never told because my agent insisted I turn my memoir into graphic novel because, he said, “I can sell a graphic.” he kept his word, but I’m not a graphic novelist, so the book did not do well. Graphic’s are also sparse on detail. But no matter. It was fun.
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A poem of deep, intimate & quiet, tender & empathic love.
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I agree. I like this poem a lot.
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Wonderfully evocative lyric, full of sensual imagery in spite of (or because of) not being able to see.
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I agree, Tony!
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Merci, cher professor. ❤
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