What the Other Eye Sees
By Christina Clark
In rehab you were a young boy trapped
in the sun-suckered skin of an oil rigger.
You kicked dirt off the planks
of the picnic table you squatted over,
spit words and dripped ash into a tin can,
your glass eye scanning its bottom
as if in search of lost gold.
Warren—what is it you see
when you peer beneath the cinders
and sand? Is it the severed
pavement where your parent’s bones
were crushed under the folded metal
of a blue Ford truck? The strap
of the seatbelt dug in your father’s neck?
Your mother’s lips struck open,
speechless? When you cast your glass eye
into the shadows I see you
years younger, the pipe bursting open
as you sunk the glistening tip
of the drill into scorched earth, a metal shard
reeling up to slide in like a hook, pull
your left eye from its socket,
writhing in the dust. Detached
but still alive you sniffed line after line
of meth to blur your parents’ blue faces,
washed away mornings with shots of tequila,
vials of cocaine in your veins. Gazing
into the darkness, muttering the names
of your dead, your other eye
drifting in a black stream, witness
to all that’s missing.