LOOKING TO SEE HOW THE EYES INHABIT DARK, WONDERING ABOUT LIGHT

                  In December 1999, Stevie Wonder sought to undergo an operation to partially restore his sight. He made the round of talk shows, trumpeting the possibilities, before the story dropped off the radar. Doctors had declared that he was not a good candidate for the procedure.

Look. When he assumes he is alone, he absently claws the air for light.

See how he pulls the sun toward himself. Even as he conjures, wonders,

eyes spit their cruel blanks, drench him in mud. His mama is the dark;

dark is his daddy. A shiver in his lids becomes his next church, his eyes

wonder at the black bottomless flash, the siphoning of narrative. He can see

light as it exists in memory—lush, fleeting, then maddening. Made ya look.

Darkness strives to be his comfort. But he is obsessed by the need to look,

eyes flat, roiling, his head adjusting as if. He tilts toward each tongue of light,

wonders at its evil sweet, squints, strains. Dark whispers, if you must see,

see the gifts I have given—the unflinching knowledge of self, the wild wonder

light has birthed in you, how it blooms without answer. He touches his eye.

Look. He lifts the lid, pokes the dead orb with a finger, cries out again to dark.

Seasons change only on his skin. Chill and steam nudge the edges of dark.

Wondering what year, what June, what clock it is, his useless eyes look,

light upon layered shadow, scan the unraveled empty. He curses those eyes,

eyes that simply loll and water and grow impossibly wide, clawing for light.

Look how completely he has learned the language of the hand, stark wonder

darkening weary palms as he presses them flat against against, wanting to see.

Eyes, they say, can be sexed, propped wide, flooded with daybreak. He’ll see

lightning, dim dance, maybe a minute of day. Doctors tout the shattered dark,

look beneath trembling lids for doors, promise his child’s face. And he wonders—

wonder being the only response he trusts—as hope is unleashed. It hurts to look.

Dark, desperately clutching, woos him, redefines beauty as the absence of light.

See his torso ripple, how he fights with his own fingers, how he weeps for eyes.

Wonder how long it will take before those who whisper the promise of eyes

look hard at the one-soul religion they’ve crafted, scan their data and finally see

dark as it owns him—numb to their screeching miracles, overpowering the light?

Light is overrated, they decide. Best not to shock the system, rip holes in the dark,

see up close the cacophonous stanzas sight scribbles over time. It hurts to look.

Eyes overwork, tangle lessons best learned by touch. It’s much safer to wonder.

Light a match, wave it back and forth, watch him follow the waltzing heat. Wonder,

darkly, what hollow blessings he has left to cling to. He follows music with his eyes,

sees the notes rollick black upon black. He snakes his balding head, pretends to look,

looking like a man who has never watched another man move. Now it’s easy to see—

eyes would ruin him. Shadow puppets have answered every question. The dark,

wonderful, forgiving, takes his hand and leads him, like a lover, away from the light.

Light simply makes us wonder and crave the dark.

I’ve seen how desperately you look for me.