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