Indian Summer

My mother never forgave my father for going
blind, even after surgery and prayer.
When the same thing happens to me
at least I will have come by it
honestly. Already there are days when it starts
to rain and I don’t notice, even
facing the window. A swing and a miss
of light through the optic nerve and the clouds
break and the humidity doesn’t. I was not
meant for this season, for the slow maceration
of the world: each thought slipping loose
from the next, meaning from word, shit
from its own stink. Is this forgiveness:
the space of an eyelash between blink
and you’ll miss it
and stare and you’ll go blind?

Michael Berkowitz is a poet, web developer, and aspiring trapeze artist living in Somerville, Massachusetts. Some of his recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Hermes Poetry Journal, Eunoia Review, Tinderbox Poetry, and Quarterly West. He can be found at