Her own eyes are looped like a mad pair
of goggles, two boiled eggs.
When she leans into me I smell cilantro on her hot breath,
blowing blonde cilia hairs on her chin so that they touch
my cheek and tickle.
“What are you looking for exactly?” I ask.
We’ve been married a lifetime and often she pauses before answering
my questions.
She treats me with scrutiny,
as if I’m one of her patients,
as if I have pink eye.
When I repeat the question—
“What are you trying to find?”—
She snaps the instrument like a switchblade and says,
“The truth, damn you. The truth.”
Len Kuntz lives on a lake with his family and other sea creatures. His writing appears widely on the web and in print, and also at lenkuntz.blogspot.com.
Archived at http://www.girlswithinsurance.com/index.php/poetry/42-poetry/242-lk-0610-optometrist and shortlinked at http://frsh.in/cm
