Seeing Through Glass
My father wears contact lenses—not the soft kind,
but glass. And I have watched him lose
one or the other, and find them again,
so many times that I completely trust
that he could find me,
if ever I fell into a shag rug
the same color as my skin,
or if I ever slipped from his eye
while he was dancing.
He could find me like a one-eyed monster crawling
on his hands and knees, dragging his wings
He would lift my lost body up,
spit to clean me, and place me gently
with a dirty index finger
onto his eye,
and I would help him see.
I once watched him lose a contact
over the side of our speedboat. I saw him dive down
into the waters of Lake Erie.
When he resurfaced in his mask, holding the lens,
I loved him then.
I knew he could find me.
I knew he would find me.