By Anita Bernstein
Resting like a coaster—
skullcappy, top of my
head—my flat eye, if I had
would beam upward to ceilings.
See it find stubble on the jowls
and chins of tall men that,
to my flat eye, would point down
like vertical toothpicks. Bottoms
of high bookshelves lurch and
buckle convex, rather than
concave. See sunrays divebomb
through my retina.
They pile. They stack up like arrows.
My flat eye heeds orders, no matter how
silly: wink at the nimbus where it meets
the footbridge, glare under that pigeon
if it hops up to fly.
Anita Bernstein’s poetry has appeared in Atlanta Review, Oxford Poetry, The Minnesota Review, Orbis, Parnassus Literary Journal, Swink, Swansea Review, The New Renaissance, and elsewhere.