Eerie, how faces hold their secrets
close to their eyes. – My eyes?
Not really, oh, a few small ones,
perhaps. But, others eyes…

Paper bag eyes abide,
inside is hollow, spacious with echoes,
browned by greed.

Detergent box eyes subscribe
to cleansings, constantly scrubbing
our imagined filth away.

Scrubbing my eyes…

Produce eyes are alive with
vegetable threats and bunches of banana kisses,
healthy, they sneeringly thrive.

Potted flower eyes briefly flash,
then die with no hope for gossamer wings,
roots rot, and petals weep.

Potato chip eyes seem trite
and crisp, they crunch and grimace with glee
at human indiscretions.

Salting my eyes…

Cigarette smoke eyes cry
with vice, trapped by shy self control,
puffing and huffing dismay.

Meat aisle eyes despise
tofu ways, demand their blooded beef,
not caring what screams.

Grocery store eyes hide
behind plastic. Those eyes
pierce me, portray normalcy.
But, what is normal?

Sacrificed eyes…

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 6/9/04