Looking into the irises of the doctor,
you think of salmon leaping from a stream
in all their breathless inquiry,
certain in uncertainty,
their scales sheening like oil spills
left in a parking spot,
which is what you think of when you look
into the watercolor eyes of Christ--
It’s like avoiding your father.
You are hiding, and he looks for you
behind each locked door,
coming nearer and nearer...
What else can you do but ignore him?
Either way, you’re riding home alone in the taxi--
But how can you even care about that?--
What’s important is to avoid looking too closely
into the irises of your father, those two stars,
deceptive with their dying light.
Domenic Scopa is a four-time Pushcart Prize nominee and the 2014 recipient of the Robert K. Johnson Poetry Prize and Garvin Tate Merit Scholarship. He holds an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts. His poetry and translations have been featured in The Adirondack Review, Reed Magazine, Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, and many others.
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From Her Soul. Photography by Fabrice Poussin.