My Father's Eyes
My father’s eyes, a blue
expanse vast as his untold
failure: why not read the label,
I asked until one day he replied.
“I cannot read.”
Until then he never knew
the word dyslexic.
And when the blue began to vanish,
an ocean retreated from the shore
left in his face gray pools:
age as disability. I see my own
brown eyes fading now to blue
in ruptured depths where luck won’t
last: I won’t be my drivers license.
How boisterous are the birds crowding
trees like fans at a football game,
their abrupt silence when a
player gets brained. Disasters we witness
shrink us in our chairs, close our
voices. The stretcher carries away
the load of silent flesh. Not me,
is what we always hope.
The fading eyes of a man whose
mother’s eyes were blue. They fade
like she did: too many babies. She
scolded each and every one,
those who read well and soon,
the one who never read. What I want
to say is that my father lives inside
me, lacking confidence, living
off his pride.