Cataracts
Nothing has been pretty
since I switched to contacts,
since I stopped picking petals for love,
but rather to roll and inhale them
once they’re dried and tinged
with nostalgia.
It starts from innocent things:
Fire was for s'mores.
Now the only things smokey
are my black lungs when I drive
in the backwoods,
where the boys used to go.
The optometrist asks me
to read the letters on the wall.
I gaze at the box of light
and say raspberry, sailboat, time.
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: