it was a fault of shortsight.
to read chalk
on a blackboard;
the bridge between
seeing and learning,
built another
crooked bridge:
out of malleable bone
and pliable years.
And in the ninth,
heavy coke-bottle glass and names,
gave way to new sight
I could poke into my eyes every morning.
but still the nose
I wasn’t born with,
I said, ruined by spectacles so early on.
Fingers in mirrors trying to undo
the done, see,
this is what I’m meant to look like.
but now I see pictures
of daddy looking away,
profiles of a man
with perfect sight.
and I see a bridge
between him
and I.
Fingers in a mirror,
tapping a line, see,
this is what I look like.
