Field Test

Twenty years measuring

strangers’ eyes, entire fields

of vision. Despair and happiness


look the same in the iris:

synaptic blue roots, wired



You tell them what they see:

simple horizon, hot-air balloon.

Not what they feel: trapped, anxious.


Come closer. There I am,

a small horn in the corner.

Can you see, I’m no angel?


Blonde-haired, grey-eyed

allelic motes float. We share


the pressure:

you with your trigger,

me with my flinch.


What do you see in this puff of air?

Test me Mother, I’m disappearing.