“No me miras,” she said, hiding her face,
the ER staring with its thousand eyes.
She cried, her sobs becoming visible:
tears sparkled, making spectacle of sight.
The ER blaring. With its thousand eyes
of stars, the night outside was watching us.
Dew sparkled. What a spectacle, the sight
of morning dawning in the parking lot,
the stars, the night grown frustrated with us.
I tried to visualize her retina,
like morning bleeding, flecked with dark red clots.
What little we can see inside of us.
I try to visualize her now, returning
to whatever shithole she was from.
How awful, what we see inside of us.
Self-righteously, her nurse asked, “Why such rage?”
Back wherever she tried crossing from,
her husband beat her up. She gazed at me,
while I still nursed my pent-up, righteous rage.
Don’t look at me! I thought, hiding my shame.