by Paul Hostovsky
The blind boy likes to rock
and flail. And he looks like
a little blind boy’s imitation
of a flightless bird getting ready
for takeoff. It feels good to him,
all this energy he can’t get out
through his eyes, being deflected
into this dance, this genuflecting
deliciously at his desk. It feels
good to him, it feels good to him,
it feels good to him. “William!
Stop doing that unseemly thing!”
yells the teacher at the blind school.
She is trying to cure the blind kids
of rocking and flailing. Because it isn’t
seemly. And the blind must learn
what is seemly to the sighted. But for now
all he knows and all he needs to know
is it feels good to him, it feels good to him,
it feels good to him to do this thing
that is like breathing to him,
that is like his own heartbeat to him
that his teacher is telling him to stop.