Just throw me down the laundry chute:
I’ll be your tumbling lucky penny,
singing the spells I know by heart,
the name of every magic planet.
O giant blurry sisters, set
me reeling like the angry stoat
suspended from the Christmas tree
whose human children cannot choose
but kneel and offer him their meat.
I hear the dark walls swiftly whisper
what Grandpa knows but will not say:
what happened to his only daughter
whose bony fingers braid his hair,
whose lips still taste the sacred butter.
Roy White is a blind person who lives in Saint Paul, Minnesota with a lovely woman and a handsome dog. His work has appeared, or is about to, in BOAAT Journal, Rogue Agent, American Journal of Poetry and elsewhere, and he blogs at lippenheimer.wordpress.com.