SUSAN RICHARDSON

Today I am pleased to share the rich and reflective writing of award-winning poet, Susan Richardson. Susan lives in Ireland with her husband, and their two dogs and two cats. Please enjoy her poems, "The Cruel Side of His Eye" (originally published by The Storms), and "Diagnosis" (first published in Rust + Moth). Thank you, Susan, for allowing me to feature your work!

The Cruel Side of His Eye

I stand in front of a mirror,
droplets of steam
clouding my reflection,
tuck my hair behind my ear.
I have my father’s ears,
unpliable like tree bark.
With calloused fingers,
I trace the signs of time
peppered across my face,
rub the echo of a storm from my eyes,
deep set and turbulent,
another trait my father and I share.

Today I became the cruel side of his eye,
fury blooming in my jaw,
blood -soaked red that overtook my tongue.
I lifted my voice to the sky,
filled it with spikes of thunder,
dormant in my mouth for a decade.
I pulled shadows from my throat,
hurled them at my father’s wife,
for shaming him
as his thoughts became fragile,
words falling like hummingbird bones
from his trembling mouth.

My heart races in the aftermath of anger,
scratching like a hairshirt
against my ribs.
I push the thin line of my lips
into a scowl,
teeth crooked just like his.
I inherited my father’s underbite
and his rage.

Diagnosis

White canes and hope quiver in the
hands of patients in search of divinity.
Like disciples, we flock to a white coat god,
known across continents as a beacon for the blind.

The hum of anticipation hovers over the waiting room,
mingling with the smirk of fluorescent spikes,
every seat occupied by someone whose
life is about to be ravaged by bad news.

A young boy sits across from me, wilting into
his chair, torn like the skin of an avocado,
weeping eyes closed against the glare of the lights.
His mother strokes his shaking fingers.

We are all on a wire, terrorized by the hands
of a hospital clock, time picking at our skin,
taunting us with shapes that disappear into nightfall.
Silence wrings fright into the smudges of our breath.

The sound of my name shatters against
the quiet, bellowed by a nurse experienced
in leading people into sentences of darkness.
I follow her through the fog of my dilated eyes,
into a dimly lit room crowded with the scent of dread.
I am not eager for this diagnosis.

The doctor arrives, a sadist with a scowl on his face
and a slice of mustache capping his frigid lip.
He looks at me as if my presence is inconvenient,
shines a spotlight on my disease and tells me not to blink.
He plucks out my eyes and buries them in his scorching headlamp.

My fate is delivered from a sterile throat.
The first witness to the death of my retinas can’t see the fear in my eyes.
He doesn’t even look at me when he tells me
I am going blind.

Susan Richardson is the author of Things My Mother Left Behind (Potter’s Grove Press), and Tiger Lily (JC Studio Press), an Ekphrastic Collaboration with artist Jane Cornwell.  Susan also writes the blog, “Stories from the Edge of Blindness.” Her poems have appeared in Crannog, The Storms, California Quarterly, Ink Sweat and Tears, and The Opiate Magazine, among others. Originally from Los Angeles, California, she now writes from her home in Ireland. You can learn more about Susan's work on her website.

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