Through a New Lens

November 2016

Election day passes
drop by drop
at the eye surgery center.

My right eye
is stripped of clouds,
the lens replaced.

I watch vote counts,
plastic taped across my eye,
vision obscured, outcome uncertain.

The morning after, no flash of light.
I fight the urge to rub an itch,
to blink away peripheral discomfort.

I wear dark goggles in bright sun
and drive without my glasses,
signs and stoplights clear and bright.

At follow-up, pressure reading: 22.
Is that good? The doc evades,
confuses by adding one more drop.

Three times a day
I stop everything,
follow instructions and treat my eye:
drop #1, three minutes, eyes closed;
drop #2, breathe in, breathe out;
drop #3, inhale, exhale, relax.

I rise lightheaded yet must continue,
must use all drops
and drain each bottle.

I marvel at brightness,
rediscover color,
delight in detail.

Even so, I dare not look
beyond today, cannot envision
two-thousand-seventeen.