Sometimes a poet has to step back from the experience, step back from the poem, but I always step into it, into the immediacy of it. And then it may sit idly for months or years before I discover what I have written.
These poems follow the Sjogren’s poem which also lingered in my computer for months. They are rough, but they nudged me to share them, to save them someplace where I might revise them in the future.
Cataract Surgery
The left eye is first and sees the future.
Is it real how near to me the world is
or is it a hoax? Perhaps, the future
is past and the present is the future.
And what is the truth as walls and
doors slam into me and I see every
speck of possibility lay dormant; the
floor a mass of coffee grounds and
ants.
While the right eye waits to catch
up, and it does, suddenly there
is no close-up view, no letters or
dotted I’s to tell me the trut, to
give witness to the here and now.
How odd that readers cheat me
into believing I can see what is
small and beyond my reach.
Eye drops 4-3-2-1 per day per
week ensure my sight is sterile,
that there are no cracks in my vision,
no infection, no false promises.
As I continue to see with limited
vision I don’t know what’s next,
so I buy a magnifying glass.
Cataract Post Surgery Day Seven
In this morning haze my fog lifts
And I gaze another sun lit moment
Through burning eyes
Weather agreeing or not with my
Disposition I drop prednisolone
Into right eye, feel the burn
It matters less whether I can see
The day ahead of me most are
The same
Eat drink walk grumble move
As if you really don’t want to
Dance
As if one day is really enough
And laughter isn’t someone
Else’s
Joy. Breakfast is decaf coffee
And granola, where did I hide
The cinnamon roll
Pleasure is imagination and
Yesterday’s trauma, both move
Forward and past
Both arrived here in the age
Considered old, arrived un-
Attached
And wholesome.
Cataract Surgery: Bi-Focals
I saw my face for the first time since
Seventh grade the year I wore the mask
Of powder and rouge and eye liner and
Mascara. The dark lines around my almond
Eyes my signature deception
How exotic Mother wanted me to be
Maybe I was, maybe I liked playing the
Clown princess, Lolita, the gaze sad
And inviting
And now my vision is clear facial hair
And age spots, a large nose, wrinkles
No metaphor it is what it is and perhaps
It is who I really am who I always was
I see the girl in the distance, I see the
Woman in the mirror. Wisdom grew
In the path between false images and
The truth is
It takes a lifetime to see clearly
And it takes the removal of the
Cataract and the placement
Of a new lens.
Cataract Surgery: Bifocals (revised)
I saw my face for the first time
since seventh grade, the year I wore
the mask.
Powder and rouge, eye liner and
mascara. Dark lines around my
eyes my signature deception;
how exotic Mother wanted me to be.
Maybe I was, maybe I liked playing
the clown princess, Lolita, the gaze sad
and inviting.
Now my vision is clear, facial hair
and age spots, a large nose, large ears
and wrinkles (it is what it is and, perhaps
it is who I really am, or who I always was
the adult now needing to be the child).
I see the girl in the distance, I see the
woman in the mirror. Wisdom grew
in the path between false images and
the truth is:
It takes a lifetime to see clearly–
it takes the removal of the
cataract and the placement
of a new lens.
