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 View-Master for you, mother, thanks I guess I got it from you, this habit of clenching my face into a fist, this brutal looking into, your way of seeing things, squinting, one eye clearly unable to reach as far as the other. A childhood plagued by headaches from straining and watching far too much TV, up close, so nothing would escape. Then at ten I got an inexpensive gift, one that held images up closer to my face like a kiss. Imitating the kids who were supposed to be friends, I blinked and blinked, testing my sight with it —perfect vision in my right eye, but the left one was weaker. It backed away, watered the blurred. Farsighted! your doctor proclaimed, adding windows to our already veiled corner of the world. We left linked, two good eyes between us, joined by our shared flaw. You passing your gift, me making myth with it. From THE MAVERICK ROOM (Graywolf Press, 2005)
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| Poetry Center Reading: | ||||
| Fall 2009 | ||||
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