Being in the Dark

I have not, may never, see
most of my body
only the outside, a flashlight
beam down my sore throat
and x-rays of my teeth

though I know exactly where my
uterus is for the precision of pain

like the memorized night path
from my bedroom to the bathroom
most defined by the corner
of the kitchen table
catching my hip.

I’ve gotten good at being
in the dark.

My hands know
how to find the tools
to coax out photographs—
bottle opener, scissors, spool—
how to use the sides of my fingers
as a guide for the blade to align
in the small space between
sprocket holes.

A piece of that same darkness
splices my vision each time I blink,
too fast, underlying still,
like the flickering flame of a film reel.

I don’t notice it because it doesn’t hurt.