by Cawa Tran
(for my father)
you never told me
what I could not see
when only your voice
resonates over the phone
when you greet me
at the airport
I realize how
your right eye
shimmers
white
glaucoma
a glassy
polished
pearl
people dive for these pearls
string them
one next to the other
to bind necks
like the several given to me
I locked away in a dusty jewel box
when I drifted from home
two years ago
now
in the living room
I sit across from you
I forget
brown iris
buried beneath pearl
my eyes look into yours
shift
left right
left right
left right
leftright
leftright
leftright
as if my desperate gaze
can superimpose
the brown from the
left
onto the white on the
right
mirror the image once there
erase chalk from blackboard
undo a bleach stain
wipe away breath on the window
and
polish the pearl
polish the pearl
polish the pearl
scratch off its shiny surface
rub away the
white
white
ghostly
stare
back
at
me
you lift your left hand
shield the left eye
with your right hand
in front of your face
palm towards the luminous pearl
you wave
left
right
left
right
left
right
you say
nothing more
than a shadow
with both hands down
and both eyes open
you murmur
stop
crying
at least
I still have
one eye
to see you
come home
