Don’t worry. I drink bourbon, I tell
the dry eye tech as he apologizes,
fears the alcohol rubbed around
my eyes might bother me. I miss
that sweet, smooth, almost cotton candy
aroma of Blanton’s, but I sink
into the moment, still wish for one.
The procedure goes well at first,
almost spa-like but without the hint
of lavender and warm towels.
When the heat intensifies, burns,
that smell…so many memories
of skin cancer surgeries:
I swear, you never forget the odor
of your own flesh burning—
bacon grease followed by that sting,
that sting, that sting that isn’t quick
like a snap of a rubber band, but
continues like spilling hot McDonald’s
coffee on bare skin.
I talk to myself. Relax your jaw.
Relax your shoulders.
This guy is trying to help you,
trying to halt your non-productive tears,
trying to keep you from looking like Alice Cooper
with your mascara running. I breathe.
I talk to God, ask for forgiveness
for skipping Easter Vigil because last year’s
four-hour session with frankincense and myrrh
made my eyes burn, like I chopping
three onions for spaghetti sauce.
Breathe. Blink. He stops the zaps.
Warm UV light envelops me now
like a heated blanket, I sink into light,
light that I deny myself outside.
I can see light through my closed eyelids,
sure blindness is coming.
So white, so white…claustrophobia.
I concentrate on ocean waves,
sand melts beneath my feet, but
I want to run.
I try not to blink. I try to breathe evenly.
I try not to have a panic attack.
Then…I imagine the forest, darkness
surrounds me, white pines, dark eyes
peek at me from behind a tree, black fur
shiny, damp.
Renee Williams is a retired English instructor, who has written for ONE Art, Alien Buddha Press and Pine Mountain Sand and Gravel.
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