Windows
for my father
I could say the usual things
about your eyes.
They were bright bright
lights leading me.
They were bits of coal
cradling diamonds.
They were tiny windows
to some giant warm hand
inside you.
But those things
have already been said.
And besides,
they’re lies.
Listen,
I remember your eyes.
They were closed
and that’s all.
Copyright © 2004 Heather Brondy