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Masae reaches out for a bowl
that I inevitably push towards her.
She asks me to describe
what she is feeling in
Blueberries – I tell her.
Good for your eyes – I tell her.
She continues staring at an
awkward spot on my cheek.
Decently ripe – I tell her.
No more rotten than the fruit
in your eye sockets – I tell her.
I still look out of the toy telescope
you gave me ten years ago whenever
I need to remind myself how
thankful I should be for my ripe eyes.
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The bowl is in my hand, Masae.
I am peeling the skin, Masae.
I am stripping away the bruise
and hold in my hand a cloudy sphere
filled with a thicket of sweet things.
This soft marble of sugar
crying its syrup down my finger.
I watch you reach for your handkerchief
as you cry how handsome my face
feels to the soft of your hands.
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You keep staring blankly at the awkward spot
on my cheek and touch my face again, Masae.
You tell me I look beautiful.
I haven’t thrown the telescope away, Masae.
I hand you the bowl.
Take my eyes, Masae.
Tell me I look like a star,
like all of the stars.