by Gustavo Adolfo Aybar
What I know for sure, grows in my son’s left eye.
A cataract, where once a tumor grew.
That cloudy lens will someday make images fade or yellow
like the half-faded sky at twilight.
That len’s fight became my definition of God.
As in God, those specialists entered the hospital room,
an ambush of sorts; his lid drawn and quartered
to evaluate the retina. Every finger a soldier.
As in “God, he’s scared. Be gentle!
On other visits, eyes growing blurry, pupil widening,
his stuffed toy accompanied him in the operating room.
Holding Bongo tightly. Plaything turned God.
God, soften his cries; steady his breathing. God, help me remember
after the dilating drops, even normal light overwhelms.
God: sunglasses. God: more tests. God: anesthesia.
God: his mother’s womb. God: his mother’s reproductive cells; his. His children’s
God: remission: fourth birthday: the fifth: the ninth. God,
he’s so talkative at the end of each night, when all my back
prays for is rest. God, he’s thirteen, and doesn’t remember
how his vision would clear just before nightfall,
or how dark we kept the house on those days.
Gustavo Adolfo Aybar is a Dominican born poet, writer, translator, father, and mentor. He holds an MA in Romance Languages and Literature and is a Cave Canem fellow. He’s currently completing his first illustrated kids book, and his second full-length (hybrid) poetry collection, revealing his training as a law enforcement officer. Some of Aybar’s recent work can be found in Spanglish-Voces, Acentos Review, South Florida Poetry Journal, The Rupture, among other online journals and in-print publications.
