Cortney Davis
In the darkened room, vision dims.
The doctor leans close, looks eye to eye;
his light invades my pupil’s rim.
His light moves left and right as he directs
his beam across my retina. Vessels
float like crimson ribbons, thin and bright.
It is as if my eye sees both in and out—
the optic disk reflected in my steady gaze.
I see what the doctor sees:
the tiny, obscure pulse, the net
of flimsy veins, my inner sight.
All things seen or half-seen
are tangled there, trapped
by doctor’s stare. His eye.
My eye. Vast universe between.
More to Explore
