Hot Glass

I think she sees the world in sepia.
Sometimes she watches me like I’m
an old photograph. Disappointed she
smoothes out my yellow cracks
and tells herself I must get a new lens.

Once she told me that she couldn’t
tell the difference between my skin
and the sky and said I was
brown and out of focus like
the pictures of grandma

So there was no other choice. I melted
sand in our back garden under the bonfire
with some soda and lime. Drew the molten
mixture off, let it cool and crafted it into
contact lenses.

She puts them on, still warm from my fire,
and winces.

Daniel Payne

If you've any comment on this poem, Daniel Payne would be pleased to hear from you.