Apt. 7F
“It’s a numbered door behind which I lay rigid, in utter darkness, for ten days and ten nights—days and nights that in memory are a single moment.”
– Jorge Luis Borges
November slipped behind
the white of my eye. I laid
on my back to greet it. You
held my lid open, added drops,
and saw all that I could not see:
the eye beyond bloodshot,
the thin stitches like pubic hair,
my deadening yellow sclera.
November was a bright month,
you said. It was
the brightest month for us,
the brightest month.
| Jessica Dyer |
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