Teresa White



Venetian blinds allow in bars of light
and an orchestra of sparrows
chutter in the locust tree.

I have lived here long enough
to know the universe is carpeted,
draped, that mountain ranges loom
in National Geographic, glossy
pictographs I cipher with my fingertips.

I am not deprived.
I have seen rivers on TV
reflecting light like mica on the screen,
heard the music fly fishermen make,
their supple lines snapping through the air.

Not even the jaws of life
could wrench me from this room
where I grow old with you,
where a flamingo is a black and white bird
in a dictionary.