Poem: Blindside: for Bam at 103

Your ravaged eyes picture librettos

long known by heart,

as you mouth the arias’ words.

Never bored, your

fragile limbs venture on dream trips,

escapades missed in your youth.

Ripe resonant voice

tells of discussions with Dad,

decades dead, your sweetheart still.

This frail hand I hold

opens in generosity—

probes toward the void—

could wave in the night

goodbye

and no one see.

—Mary Newell

This article appears in September 2016.