Eye Exam

Published in Crack the Spine (March 2016)

She said I wasn’t losing my mind—
put her hand on my arm,
looked at me without blinking,
said, “Of course.”

And although hardly her area of expertise,
I accepted her diagnosis with relief—
rationalizing that she really must know her stuff,
having figured out, after all,
that this was the answer I was really looking for.

I listened to the metronome of her voice,
One or two? Three or four?
and dutifully did my best,
despite desperate hopes of failure.

(Please, let it be my eyes.)

And between tests, I confessed to more—
that I could see the water stain in the corner of her ceiling.
(One not two)
And the cabinet door slightly ajar.
(Four not three)
Dust on the magazine stack.
(LPED)
Picture askew.
(PCEFD)
Shade cord missing.

And yet, I whispered to her in the dark,
her beam of light piercing me,
I had stopped changing lanes
if I could help it.
And when I do,
I check the side mirror,
then the rear,

then the side again, and
unable to trust where shadows end,
turn and crane my neck for a direct view,
free from the interpretation of mirrors.

She said my eyes were fine,
which crushed me.
But that is when she put her hand on my arm,
and I saw the soft brown spots on her wrist,
the bright pattern of her blouse
beneath the sleeve of her white coat,
and she added that I wasn’t losing my mind either.

Of course I had stopped trusting mirrors, she said,
her gray eyes wide and clear behind her own thick lenses,
and I saw her crow’s-feet, the hollows in her cheeks,
the skin just starting to sag under her chin.

Then mine reflected back at me,
her hand on my arm
as we sat together.