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April 2017, vol 13 no 1

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Nancy Beauregard

Blindness


I watch the world recede through a telescopic lens. First the stars disappear, not one by one, but by constellations. Only the North Star remains, refusing to leave me. Up in the night sky it burns the brightest and my lips part in wonder. Colors that I thought once loved me have turned their backs and are now apathetic. The greens turn to gray, reds to orange, purples to blue. My field of vision no longer sees rivers winding through a meadow of lavender, or a desert of red cliffs. It is more specific, like looking at a hive of bees and seeing only one alight on a cactus blossom.

honey bees
yellow flowers
in shades of violet


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