stained glass

from where i sit, perched
on the persimmon couch, i could see

a great big anything. a whole sky waiting
for the right pair of eyes to turn up, to see. or

from a reedy knoll, a typha field, between the branches
of a dogwood gone to seed, i could tell it’s not waiting at all,

only there, spreading out across anyone’s sight
unaware of the human need to be needed.

i squint. light stains my eyes.

my brother told me starting the day by looking to the sky
can improve the chemical balance of the brain. we’ve tried

both of us, to brace our chemical imbalances in any
number of ways, with no luck. so, the horizon

a simple offering. he tried twice
to teach me before i listened & i do not know

where he learned. i do not know where he finds
the knowledge he gathers, but

he allowed a window to strain through
& so i squint, let my eyes be stained with light. i hear him

retching from another room some twenty miles away.
i work this memory until it swells, then abates &

i stretch it across my stained eyes, hope
it will draw pain from the body the way a compress

or poultice might. i watch him
shiver his way through absence, wet

the tips of my fingers to check the temp of the bath
i ran for his grown body.

never before
had i felt more like a mother.

not when the life grew within & then
left. not when i cradled my other brother, my younger boy

in my own arms, held his blanket to his chest, covered
his ears with my palms & turned the television up loud

to drown out the screaming. not even then.

somewhere along the way, guilt & envy soldered
together, bordered these memories

in my mind, kept them barred from his.
he sees the last of hesitant light

three times a week, but does not turn
his chin up to gain a better view

looks straight ahead when he walks, eyes only
on the destination he’s searching for.

my own eyes wander endlessly, tracing the edges
of each vitreous view of life, always reaching

for the right concentration to tint my sight
into something bearable; copper to draw light

through the cobalt of night; nickel to
shade blue to violet; even the lightest touch of gold

can turn lead into cranberry glass, but
i’m too caught up in looking to find it.