EYE SEES YES
Yet why something here.
What a question, kid.
Nearby in time a bog drags
its spitwad-aeons to a human animal
it wishes to kiss into soft leather.
To wrinkle like a watercourse
over algae-fanged rocks.
Man-fingers crabbed like mangrove roots.
Planets are islands where life
forgets how to swim back.
Everywhere huge and wet.
Micro sea-skeletons chalk up storms
astronauts observe. Unlikely
cataracts over Earth’s blinding thereness.
The eye adheres to dead stars.
Between mopping up the light and
wringing out a sharp
image of here,
it quick allows itself
an old blur:
the eye’s own star-lashed
first blink of
Of course the plankton see you there!
When the same sea and sun branched
the eye in your socket.
Earth’s big bluesy iris
Blinks us into being
that through us it might
look back from the moon, the micro-
scope, and see, at last, itself:
Brooke Larson holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Columbia University, and is currently a PhD student in Poetry at the University of Louisiana at Lafayette. Her poems and essays have recently appeared The Offbeat, Gravel, The Swamp, and Dialogue Journal, and she was the 2017 runner-up for the Tennessee Williams Poetry Prize. Often, Brooke runs away to teach primitive survival skills as a wilderness guide in Arizona's Sonoran Desert.