I hadn’t seen Sam’s parents
in a decade, our boys
once childhood friends.
Their worn faces, vellum maps, reveal
a grueling journey, their son
drawn through windshield is wheelchair
bound for life. When his parents try
to sleep, what do they see
across the curtains of their inner lids?
Clouds in metamorphosis, morphine?
Rub the membrane
and the landscape changes. In Latin,
blephera, means eyelid, lashes.
Laceration. Blood red,
dawn of their son’s next day
yet also a bright computer screen,
the keyboard his companion.
Each letter a cell of communication,
grain of thought. Granule, the short-lived
brilliant spot on the sun’s
surface. Blepharoplast, the term
used when the nature of a body
is uncertain. Delicate nerves,
fragile bone, inside of an eyelid.
The color of fate without a name.