Bloodshot Eyes
Eugenie Juliet Theall

In my dream, the rainwater
that has gathered in the barrel
becomes a breeding ground
for mosquitos. Then the water
turns to lye, and I watch, repulsed
yet riveted, as my grandmother
makes soap. Bacon grease spits
from the skillet and I lie to the neighbor,
tell him I want to whisper
something in his ear, yet kiss him instead.
His eyebrows knit together
like pinched clothespins,
yet he falls for it a second time.
This broken eggshell of a boy
is all about war—his father is dying
and his mother drinks, walks their dog
with a wineglass in hand.
His pockets are not deep enough;
soon he’ll outgrow those pants.
I must stop him from redirecting sunlight
with a mirror, or I’ll awake to ants
scattered across my bed.

Return to Archive