A Miracle
Your eyes have their own clouds now,
and bifocal lenses soiled with salt and oil.
You’re correcting my math again.
Equations and figures loosen
beneath your explanations, your silences.
Everything appears. Answers come
out of places dim and invisible to me.
You don’t even need to fog and wipe
your lenses with breath, to see more
clearly: father, you remember—
remember seeing for the first time:
a toy carousel busy in your hands,
the grimace of a tyrannosaurus,
remember the gaze at a fizzle of cider,
grandma pouring cool water over
pounded yam, her head asleep
the last time, her cornrows warm—
your eyes blurry, your eyes gleaming.