Ready

One of my eyes is significantly higher on my face than the other.

When I say significantly, I mean noticeably, though certainly not exaggeratedly so. You probably wouldn't notice unless it was directly pointed out to you.

It was a truth unacknowledged by even me until I was 15. And then it was addressed, casually, by a boy, as a curiosity which he realized presently was perhaps tactless to mention. I bore it with whatever grace teenage girls can muster.

I have poor eyesight. Bad enough that my glasses act as tilt-a-whirls for those who look cavalierly through them. The combination of my eyesight and my eye slight has been a cause of concern. All of my frames, corrective and sun variety, look uneven, crooked.

"Did your glasses get bent?"

"No," strained, good-natured tone, "that's just my face."

I am particularly fond of the theory that as I was exiting the birth canal, my face was compressed, gnarled, briefly twisted as I attempted to shoot myself forth. I've never been a fan of tight spaces. I was born a little early. Not out of ambition, I'm guessing, but as befits my demeanor, simple impatience and carelessness.

Damn the consequences, when I'm ready, I'm ready. And I am almost never ready, but when I am, every one and everything better catch up. If the nail polish hasn't set, I'll smudge it because I am ready to move. If the clothes haven't dried, I'll wear them damp because I am ready to leave. If the pasta isn't cooked, I will chomp away because I am ready to eat.

There are things that I seem to never be ready to do. I'm never ready to get a better job, finish school, or pay my bills early. There are tasks and rituals that I never start until it's too late to correctly execute them.

But once in awhile, the urge to act is so strong that I do so thoughtlessly. Urgency compels me, my animal instincts shout down the voices of the better angels in my head, and sometimes I end up with half-baked, half-assed attempts.

Sometimes I end up with one eye higher than the other. Well, my vision would have been bad either way.

Concrete

Now I want to speak with substance
and excuse myself with grace,
and to overwhelm your conscience
with detached and pointed weight.

Had you passed into the abstract,
more a bother than a curse,
my regret would be unfounded;
but I've seen you at your worst.

Satisfaction won't be found in
feigned despair at truths re-learned,
like I hadn't any clue
that to attempt would be to burn.

I replace you with the treasures
that I eat and drink and buy,
yet the consequence of losing
is the dullness of my eye.

Have your senses been diluted?
Have you lost a little shine?
Likely you've increased your luster
after taking all of mine.

I still find when I awaken
that I've mourned you in my rest,
blankets tossed and pillow beaten,
and a raging in my chest.

You have such an inclination
to a vogue fidelity.
Anything beyond abstraction
is consumption; you're not free.

But I cannot be your comfort
when you panic in the night,
and mortality confronts you,
when your wrongs outweigh your rights.

I don't want to know you anymore ,
or keep your whereabouts-
but you know that won't stop me
from forever finding out.

Every lie you ever told me,
every truth you thought I missed,
comprehensively compiled
should your ignorance persist.

Only you could make romance
from a refusal to be tamed,
selfishness disguised as doubting,
clouding affection with rage.

So I falter while you watch me,
daring me to state my case,
and for that you think me simple-
still, my judgments are in place.

I suppose there's nothing left,
and I can start again from scratch.
So I'll give the myself away once more
and never get her back.