Refraction at Twilight
       

What did we see
before we knew what we saw,
before the wink of consciousness
put things in perspective, before there
was perspective, when the eye
was new—wet and simple—and the circle
around the crib pulsed with color, pure
and without context?
                                        How the world
tipped so generously then, pouring—hot
and straight from the cauldron—
prisms for new-born eyes. Oh, to be able
to see, if but for a second, the blueberry
a blotch, the overhead trees a shimmy of
green, and Mother's face—that first looming
Picasso of shape and shades—offering
comfort and suck.
                                Yes, yes I know,
skin loosens and flesh fails, but look—
the rose still reddens, and evening shadows
purple the walk. There's little time.
That white light at the end of the tunnel
is anxious as a librarian to take back your colors
before stamping your card and checking you out.

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Copyright © 2019 Alice Friman All rights reserved
from The Southern Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission