Sunglasses Her black eye is a crushed grape behind the glasses, overripe colors that are not sweet fruit bleed free of the frame if she tilts her head which she is careful not to do. She speaks about Jerry. He is tall for his age, smart for his age. He’s starting to look a lot like me. The black sea inside the cup doesn’t concern me yet my daughter pauses to ask, “Need some sugar?” forgetting—or maybe not—that her sunglasses are dark but not reflective. “Sure,” I say. “Yes, I’ll have some.” Len Kuntz