I tell her she has brown eyes like me.
Her brother has blue eyes like Dad.
Parts handed down like quilts, eyes from so far back and so far across the sea I don’t even know where my own body was made.
And I see in my hands, heart, lungs everything you gave me, that scarlet bloom of sickness in my chest, bursting up into the air.
I remember hiding under the table, my whole body shut tight, hoping you wouldn’t see me
searching for just a stupid rubber ball.
That ball was the end of me and my clouded eyes that didn’t really see anything at all.
I was blind and yet when I saw you I was blinded more than I ever thought possible, a crouching baby beast feels such electricity in the air and just knows that it’s wrong.
And did you put this wrongness into me too?
What on god’s earth did I inherit:
brown eyes like my mother, brown eyes like my father
and the passion of both enough to split a thousand knuckles wide open.