Journal

eyes

my eyes are bluest in winter
the ice and sky show there,
not to explain anything inside of me,
but only to claim a piece of the sky and ancient glaciers
as pieces of me just the same as the green apple
I consumed last year,
and to show a history
of Irish women whose eyes shone with
green hills,
rocky cliffs,
limitless oceans
I have not yet known.
but I step outside my body and I see them,
grateful for Privilege
and angry for It.
my eyes do not smile--
they shine blue and sad in winter.
the sadness is not my own


-Rosie