White canes and hope quiver in the
hands of patients in search of divinity.
Like disciples, we flock to a white coat god,
known across continents as a beacon for the blind.
The hum of anticipation hovers over the waiting room,
mingling with the smirk of fluorescent spikes,
every seat occupied by someone whose
life is about to be ravaged by bad news.
A young boy sits across from me, wilting into
his chair, torn like the skin of an avocado,
weeping eyes closed against the glare of the lights.
His mother strokes his shaking fingers.
We are all on a wire, terrorized by the hands
of a hospital clock, time picking at our skin,
taunting us with shapes that disappear into nightfall.
Silence wrings fright into the smudges of our breath.
The sound of my name shatters against
the quiet, bellowed by a nurse experienced
in leading people into sentences of darkness.
I follow her through the fog of my dilated eyes,
into a dimly lit room crowded with the scent of dread.
I am not eager for this diagnosis.
The doctor arrives, a sadist with a scowl on his face
and a slice of mustache capping his frigid lip.
He looks at me as if my presence is inconvenient,
shines a spotlight on my disease and tells me not to blink.
He plucks out my eyes and buries them in his scorching headlamp.
My fate is delivered from a sterile throat.
The first witness to the death of my retinas can’t see the fear in my eyes.
He doesn’t even look at me when he tells me
I am going blind.