by Sara Lynne Puotinen
HOW TO FIND A BLIND SPOT
Stand. Stare. Wait.
Stand a foot away from a blank wall in a well lit room. Close your left
eye and look straight ahead with your right or close your right eye
and look straight ahead with your left. Stare into the center until a
dark ring begins to appear.
Return. Stare until you believe. Repeat.
Go back to the wall. Stand a foot from it with one eye closed and
one eye open. Stare at a spot in the center and wait for your ring
scotoma to appear. Look at the ring until you see it even when you
are not staring at that spot on the wall, until the fact of your
deteriorating vision remains real. When the ring and your faith
fades, return to the wall as often as necessary.
Tape. Trace. Experiment.
Tape a piece of paper to the wall at eye level then stare at the
center of it. When your blind spot appears on the paper, trace it
with a pencil. Experiment with the ring you traced. Make it the
shape of a concrete poem. Use it to conceal words in an erasure
poem. Cut it out, look at it, then through it at your words, the
world. Turn it into a series of poems about how you feel as you live
through the process of losing your central vision.
Transcript of “Incurable”
No cure. A stubborn sentence that brings relief not
despair. No expensive tests. No inconclusive results.
No experimental treatments. No jammed waiting
rooms needles pickling Acceptance is not my eyes.
No need for tears weakness but strength for grief for
doubt. Nothing Strength is not shutting to stop
the gray from away but opening up. Diminished coming to
store away vision inside is not a death a jar on
a shelf. Such sentence certainty but a makes space
becomes threshold between a gorge and through a gate a
door that other worlds. waits Put back that open for
me to pass sugar and salt. Pack away through and
into amphitheaters those preservatives. I do not of air
with taller and need to be cured. wider views.
Here I can be above the river all glitter and glow
now I can wander with the sprawling red oaks thick
with green and framed in a blue so blue even my
cone-starved eyes will feel its cerulean realness.
No cure. A stubborn sentence that brings relief not despair. No expensive tests. No inconclusive results. No experimental treatments. No jammed waiting rooms needles pickling my eyes. No need for tears for grief for doubt. Nothing to stop the gray from coming to store away inside a jar on a shelf. Such certainty makes space becomes a gorge a gate a door that waits open for me to pass through and into amphitheaters of air with taller and wider views. Here I can be above the river all glitter and glow. Now I can wander with the sprawling red oaks thick with green and framed in a blue so blue even my cone-starved eyes will feel its cerulean realness.
Acceptance is not weakness but strength. Strength is not shutting away but opening up. Diminished vision is not a death sentence but a threshold between and through other worlds. Put back that sugar and salt. Pack away those preservatives. I do not need to be cured.
Sara Lynne Puotinen lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota, near the Mississippi River Gorge, where she conducts experiments in writing while moving, moving while writing, and doing both while losing her central vision to a degenerative eye disease. Her poetry has appeared in The Account, Harpy Hybrid Review, Last Syllable, and more.