My eyes are round
and brown like chestnuts,
I must have found them
in the park, next to all the
benches. There are still specs
of dirt and soft wood
around their rim.

These aren’t my regular
eyes, though, in case you
were wondering. They’re
misshaped replacements for
the black almonds that were
stolen from my childhood,
harvested from fertile sockets
to fit the snack needs of
anonymous bellies.

I rub them constantly,
hoping the splintery spheres
will eventually roll into
place. Attempting to smooth
them like river worn stones,
I blink often and roll them
around like gimbals,
sometimes, even in public.

My parents have lost all
faith in my sight straightening,
There were no keys on my
16th birthday, nor were there
shoulders equipped to steady
a rickshaw, a feat far less
visually demanding.

I’ve stopped blaming the
narrow sockets, though, they too
seem to realize the potential
found outside conformity, and
who am I to disagree?

If I were born Chinese,
it would all make so much
sense, or at least the
thinly wired coke bottles
would better accent my mistakenly
high cheek bones.

And I think that would have been
just enough to make due.

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