FROM BLUE ROOMS First the cat comes to you, cloud white, one-eyed, then I come to you, there on his iris, around the pupil's dark seed, cool, icy ring of me. Cat first, eye next, then this thought: How did the vet remove it? Some little spoonlike tool, then the eye looking up from a surgical tray, the cornea torn in a catfight. So one thought follows another follows a third until you equate the eye to the damaged world. Bomb craters. Wildfires. Giant wedges of white toppling into the Arctic. Trees, acres of trees, felled by chainsaw, by tsunami. The earth grinding into itself, leveling what was once upright. Stop it. When you are like this, obsessed with disaster, I would rather be pink at a county fair, that dull rose cobwebbed around a paper cone. But I am here stuck with you until this cat uncoils from your lap. Let us make the best of this moment together: See how his eye dazzles like polished sapphire? Just look at it. No, the other one.
From Blue Rooms.
Hernandez, David (American writer)
FROM BLUE ROOMS First the cat comes to you, cloud white, one-eyed, then I come to you, there on his iris, around the pupil's dark seed, cool, icy ring of me. Cat first, eye next, then this thought: How did the vet remove it? Some little spoonlike tool, then the eye looking up from a surgical tray, the cornea torn in a catfight. So one thought follows another follows a third until you equate the eye to the damaged world. Bomb craters. Wildfires. Giant wedges of white toppling into the Arctic. Trees, acres of trees, felled by chainsaw, by tsunami. The earth grinding into itself, leveling what was once upright. Stop it. When you are like this, obsessed with disaster, I would rather be pink at a county fair, that dull rose cobwebbed around a paper cone. But I am here stuck with you until this cat uncoils from your lap. Let us make the best of this moment together: See how his eye dazzles like polished sapphire? Just look at it. No, the other one.