Pure white. Eggshells, unbroken.
So clear I see mine reflected. Rusty. Festering. A snowman’s red-hot coals.
His porcelain orbs. Unstained marble.
My rubber band wads. Spirals of fried yarn. Old baseballs dissected by a lawnmower.
He sips his bottle and we stare. I’m lost in the milky sea and he’s frightened by these deranged grapes of mine.
Look at those blue irises. Like mine were. Blue? Were they? Now? Crimson roadmaps of flaming car accidents.
Dented pupils snared in frayed capillaries stuffed with purple deposits. My blinks bump. How much cholesterol can an eyeball hold? I look at his perfect little feet, then back to his eyes, and moving these cankered nuggets just an inch emits a wretched scraping sound.
He starts to cry and I close my eyes. He calms. I rock him and he falls asleep. “I’ll keep them closed for you,” I whisper. “Anything you need, forever.”
I place him in his crib, kiss his forehead. Exit the room, press my phone against my eyes and let the videos rip.
