Eyes. Eyes. They are the eyes
that feed on children in the sun,
on brides, birds, grandmothers, stars.
They’re always there, loaded revolvers
blinking too loudly at parties, shooting
at smiling faces with more vengeance
than crime or conscience. They capture
our gestures, helpless in their sight,
just to prove the past or present real.
We were children, once; beneath this
face there is another we have never
wanted. Our bodies just keep going,
developing reproductions of ourselves.
Our souls are prisoners of eyes forever.
Copyright © 2001 A. Poulin Jr.
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of BOA Editions LTD.