It begins when I step out of the library on a
Clear-skied day: a squeezing of the vessels
Behind my eyes, an expanding dust bunny spot
Over my vision, glowing at the edges—and
Now I am tossed into frantic disarray.
I think, is this it—is this time a stroke?
I’m five years old. There: my grandmother on a
Stretcher, body slack and pale. Stoppage in her
Brain. Ambulance outside. To her I step,
Reach, touch my tiny hand to hers and squeeze.
Her eyes gaze far away; her face kaleidoscopes—
This is what it’s like to stare down the barrel of
A loaded gun and not see the bullet.