The Girl with the Lazy Eye
She thinks she is the night. She reads
the lamp. Dry flutter on the tongue,
the aroma of moss, soft leather
within the channels of the ear,
and the sound of hunched-over
scribes writing. The ophthalmologist,
a light strapped to his head, says,
you will never be a star tennis player.
Then she can become the brightness
of the day. Who ever told her otherwise?
Because she smiled as a child,
sweet herbs in the garden not a faded rose.
The morning he searches into her eye
she shuts it and points to her throat.
Here, Doctor, look. Aah.
He promises she will be no Cyclops.
He has thrown away the patch.
She can touch the sky with both feet.
I tell you these things now because I polish stone.
Tout va bien, tout va bien, tout va bien.
Saturn’s rings enfold lost children.
Love, love, draw the curtains of lament.
Ronnie Hess is the author of three poetry chapbooks (Whole Cloth; Ribbon of Sand; A Woman in Vegetable) and two culinary travel guides (Eat Smart in France; Eat Smart in Portugal). She lives in Madison.