Good Eye

Poem

Mother stayed up all night
applying medicine
to my right eye,
gouged by Barrett’s fourth finger.
She leaned over,
touching my eyelid
with an ice pack,
while I lay,
my backside down.

My good eye could see
between her pink fingernails
her eyes opening
under the living room light.
I waited for numbness
to set in and my eyelid
to drop. My good eye
clearly saw her two eyes.
What they said
was better than healing.

Notes

Share This Article With Someone

Print ISSN: 2837-0031
Online ISSN: 2837-004X