Parietal Eye

These eyes have yet to open.

wilting against lashes,

becoming peel-away scabs

like the gray patch we wear

because our fathers wore them

when they were beautiful golden things of pride.

 

Patches or bars or stars or birds of prey

circling overhead.

Dead or dying somewhere far from home,

in deep bowled trenches. Surging with real fire,

full red eyestones somewhere

between the moon and our recent memories,

only, it’s not the dust

it’s not the pink ducts

squalling overfull,

welling at a tension

on the lower lids,

 

Most agate workers die of TB

In Tianjin. Few Vets

can afford peace of mind, among

Chinese gem cutters, zero.

Red eyes staring at each other,

with real fire somewhere in-between.

Not at all like the reflection of coffee

in-between thighs on my way to work

as I think about Dad.