Evil Eye
Mary Winters
I count them up:
the week's dirty looks.
From a crazy on the subway;
me clinging to the pole
wondering if my boss is dead.
(I broke my own rule:
no eye contact.
Everyone of the train's
half as bright and sane as they seem.
Which isn't saying much.)
From a camera clicked by my mother.
It's not the lens
that steals your soul,
it's the person taking the picture.
(Freud said all parents
hate their children;
I hide that fact from my kid.)
The eyes of the guard following me
looking for something to steal.
The x-ray machine left on too long.
The glaring cat.
The string therapist.
The cop's flashlight that catches me
alone in the back seat, naked.
The sun; I'm watching an eclipse
without my smoked glass.
The sharp-toothed jack o'lantern,
I can't blow the candle out.
Headlights coming
toward me in a dream.
I scream and scream.
