I don’t know Braille

By Bobbi Johnson

I don’t know Braille

But I still have my vision, though it’s bad

It’s blurry

And unfocused

I get headaches a lot

My tinnitus is awful

The throbbing overwhelms me at times.

I don’t know any Braille

But the fingers I do have still move

Flexible joints

Limber digits

My fingernails look like shit

The cuticles are rotten

I keep my hands hid deeply in my pockets.

I don’t know Braille

But I comprehend the things my subconscious screams

Like, why?

…my God…why?

Did so many have to die

Who are never coming home

They fell and the ground then swallowed them up.

I don’t know Braille

But I appreciate the sensation of this granite stone

Chiseled engravings

Cold smoothness

It represents more than death

It’s a cathedral to their life!

Who paid, with their blood, the ultimate price.

I don’t know Braille

But when I reach out to touch one of the names

Like Tom

Or Bill

For a second I can connect

With a warm soul I once knew

And thank God I understand this form of writing.

I don’t know any Braille

But with The Wall that’s superfluous anyway

A big gray knife

Beautifully cut

That I find I love to embrace

Doesn’t require brains, sight or might

Just a piece of my heart, which I leave at it’s base.

If you don’t know any Braille

But want to read an explicit Veteran’s story

That’s most revealing

Explains all the shit

Then go to The Wall in Washington

And stare at the names of the dead

A timeless saga of young boys, a legacy which will never end.