My grandmother’s eye was removed.
Her cornea extracted, as if 
working loose the yolk of an egg.

Days later, I found her crying 
in the florescent hall bath,
tugging her sutured eyelid.

I lie, I can see it healing
right now! Convince her
that by tomorrow she will be able to see

her husband again. The next day, 
between pecks of fried fish,
she winked one clouded lens at me,

grin-faced, pointing, You
look just like your grandaddy.

Oh yeah? What was he like? I asked
and she said, handsome.

Paper thin,
nothing but right angles
under her white nightgown.