The after-light of the sun in my closed eyes
pulses green and blue, flowers on my dark cranial
lawn. My ophthalmologist says I have
the biggest floater he’s ever seen,
that I should be wary of retinal detachment,
that naming the floater Greta and proclaiming
her my wife underestimates the severity of the situation.
Doc, believe me when I say I cannot bear
to unsee my nephew, who just passed
his object permanence phase and understands
the softness of my cheek still exists without his touch.
Believe me when I say my face in the mirror
is the only way I can show my mother grace.
It’s all oh so serious; I know, you know, Greta knows,
oh right fuck Greta, I’m sorry Greta, I love you sweetie,
you’re the best partner I’ve ever had, you and I
can still see the whole world together, even once
the light falls out Greta, even once the light falls out.