Masae reaches out for a bowl
that I inevitably push towards her.
She asks me to describe
what she is feeling in
her fingertips.
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.

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.

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.