Stephen Heins

The eyes are the windows to the soul

My windows are layered with condensation.
    I wipe it off but what’s left is the smudge of a handprint

People tell me my windows are beautiful.
    Stained glass.
    Yet time adds dust to everything,
    And beauty adds no novelty

Cracks in the glass.
    Cracks beyond the glass.
    People walk past, unattentive.
    Who wants to stare at broken glass?
    Don’t get too close, you might cut your feet

One shape turns to many,
    Falling down,
    Scattering,
    Splinters lost in cement cracks

Don’t throw rocks in a glass house

Fortunately, I don’t live in glass.
    Un-fortunately my rocks always hit the wrong places

My windows are amorphous
    And dim.
    Constantly changing, writhing,
    Like eldritch desert creatures

My eyes are kayaks in a raging, frothing river.
    Holes scatter their hulls,
    Poorly patched with calk and tape,
    Dare they not spring a leak or everything goes down.
    The river is angry, ravenous, insane,
    But also patient,
    Knowing that capsizing me isn’t necessary.
    To swallow me, it only has to wait

If I could build a dam in that river,
    Blocking its flow like a blood clot,
    I would.
    If I could stop for five measly minutes
    To collect wood or cement or rocks or steel…
    But the river won’t let me.
    The moment I dip my ankle, I’ll be devoured.

“It’s okay to cry.”
    “It releases toxins.”
    “It’s only natural.”
    You know what else is natural?
    Cancer.
    Sink holes.
    Mud slides.
    Tsunamis.

Houses like this don’t spring leaks.

                                                                                      ***

I am perambulating across a sun-battered expanse of ash and graymatter sand. The red selenelion sky reflects scarlet unto the fruitless ground, turning it to a frozen, stagnant inferno. I hold out my hand, in my fingers an eye, using it to guide my way. The pupil adjusts to the bloodfire of dawn with some struggle. I must find shelter soon. To my side an idle cow skull watches me—I swear I see it smile, impossible though that may be. The roar of thunder fills my ears, vibrating my spine, as it has been all night; the crackle of falling rain surrounding me, mocking me in its refusal to touch the dry ground or my mummifying skin. The eye requires moisture; my fingers have none. What is a man to do? I remember the river, that leviathan of nature. The starving river; the patient river; the serpentine river. I thought there would be no end, I thought it would best me. Why didn’t I drown in that river? It would have been so easy. It would have been tranquil. Something itches in my head—a locust might be nesting in one of my face’s empty sockets, I can’t really tell. Maybe it’ll lay eggs; maybe it’ll burrow to my brain. Oh well. I put a hand to my skeletal face. My feet make sluggish strides over the flatland, cracking with each step, leaving prints in my wake to be swept away in the first desert breeze. The eye wants to blink—has to blink. The rain above taunts it. I hold it out as straight as I can. My shoulder aches. Maybe I can rest for a moment before the sun becomes full. Maybe— My foot makes a splash, sinking low into a pothole of crude oil. I lose balance. My body flails and becomes one with the ground. The eye slips from my grasp and rolls away. Where is it?! I can’t find it! The sun is coming up, it’ll be here any minute! It’s going to devour me!
It’s going to

                                                                                      ***

I awaken in my bed. For a moment I think I saw the future. Then I see the sleeping dog to my side and smile. Oneiric odysseys and fears of bad omens leave me in an instant. My head hurts and my eyes water, itching with morning crust.