Fisheye Sonnet

Azura Tyabji

I watch my friend put both her contacts in, clear scars catching light. I was sightless before this: her open mouth, careful finger in her eye. I block the door. I’m not in her mirror anymore. She sees me too clearly when I ask to kiss for practice (what boys will do to us soon.) All I envision for my body is surrogacy, a clay pigeon flung close to the sun. My mouth mirrors her’s, a narrow jar I reach into. She watches me close my eyes and touch her, my friend, I am more clear than I am supposed to feel but her heartbeat scatters like fistful of marbles spilt down a flight of stairs and shame unfurls in me like a fish’s lens, too vivid too open. Pollen on a perfect window. We split our bodies into a veil revealing the wrong bride. Simulator pilots, we watch heaven below us and jump. Soon, we will dream of boys with our eyes closed to feel something like this. I am looking for light that will touch me. I am clumsy in my greed. One day there will be a name for this that I can see.