Diana M. Chien

“i was blind
as a stone”

I was blind as a stone
Blunt as a stone
I lay there—
useful
as a nub of a thumb
Pressing, I suppose, pressing
my blind weight all
against the earth,
a downturned palm—
What was I compressing?
My shadow: an unfevered space
for things the sun is seeking—
they trade in quiet tongues and quiet
speaking