Sketching

across the paper’s

width and length

in rows

of two, four, three;

sketching them stacked

like great scoops

of ice cream.

Eyes.

One atop another

piled.

Eyes

of melting,

cartoonish

grotesquerie.

Eyes,

staring –

wide and sightless –

from beneath lashes

curling,

spidery.

Eyes

of enlightenment;

of innocence and

judgment.

Eyes

of inner wisdom.

Eyes

of the ego’s “I”.

Those windows

of the soul.

Indeed,

indeed.

Sketching,

sketching

row upon row,

until she takes

the sheet of paper,

nods admiringly,

and,

wielding scissors –

silver,

shining –

slices through

the topmost row,

slices

right through

that row of eyes –

wide and sightless –

straight through

their unblinking

pupils and

irises.

 

— C.Birde, 1/20