Mar 16


My brother told me in a dream that I have his eyes.
I guess I do, but I never noticed it.
I think about the way he said it,
faced cocked to the side, sitting at a restaurant
where my mother once took a video of us,
a video I haven't thought of in years.
I was nine at the time, in New York,
I remember the sticky May day like it was yesterday,
the warmth beating on my face,
looking at my brother days before he left to go back to California.
We don't talk about things like eyes,
but in the dream, he was.
I think about our eyes, our deep brown eyes,
and I remember a girl, a brown-eyed girl,
my best friend of yore,
who still hugs me every time I go to her house,
I hardly ever do and we never talk at school but
she still hugs me, like it's a ritual,
and I hug her back, wishing it could possibly amount to how much I miss her.
And I remember the best hug I ever got,
from a girl at camp with curly hair and freckles,
a girl whose poem drifted across rows and rows of an outdoor chapel,
a girl whose soul I saw into,
a girl who saw into mine.
I don't know if I'll see her again, but I think of her often,
and sometimes I'm not sure if she exists.
She's like a person in a dream
in the next scene after my brother talks about our eyes,
face shimmering and warping with a semblance of a smile,
the magic of summer still within her grasp
as she deglorifies her eyes, calling them hazel
even though they're green and we all know it.