Brian Baumgart goes to a darkly reflective and emotionally honest place in this poem.
—
Upon Hearing that My Grandfather Would Like to See More Tears
I tweeze eyelashes
with the tips of scissors,
not clipping, but tugging
tiny generational hairs—
lines that connect his declaration
to my façade, wrinkles and all,
and I hallucinate independence:
drawing to an end of the eyelash,
the inner eye, the outer eye, the third eye,
the eye of the beholder, the apple of my eye,
the more than meets the eye, the wool over my eyes,
the eye for an eye or eyelash for an eyelash.
The delirium does all I’ve asked of it: smokescreen.
My grandfather has been dead since before I was born.
That’s a lie.
My grandfather has been dead since before I was alive.
***
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