Moon Eyes
by Jay Paul “My eyes have turned to four moons, two in the front of my face and two in the back of my bald head. I don’t see from them. They glow white, I am told by my partner. I no longer see. I just glow white orbs and listen, hearing the gurgling of a tea kettle and the scraping of frost off a wind shield in the parking lot. I cannot see. But I can hear. I can hear the morning news report of a killing by the police. I extrapolate to the crunching of bone, the cries of those brutalized for centuries. Bones are still crunched, down this very block. Moon eyes glow. I can hear the toilet clicking in the bathroom, clicking away. When will the landlord fix it? I can hear the toast pop up and think through my moon eyes of how politics ends up so often in the same place, putting down violently those who oppose. Is there another way? I smell the tea— pungent, from the earth half a globe away. My moons glow and I sense the whole earth in my body, knowing it all won’t come down the way I supp...