Mad Saltshaker

These days, my eyes are red when I rise

and leak intermittently throughout the day,

lifting pink to my left cheek, salty

smears announcing my mood: maudlin, probably.

I worry about the raised white pills floating

in the grayish sag framing orbs ordinarily

exclaimed and celebrated as crystal-blue

reminders of the soul of a person. (a poet

who carries the weight of wondering why

her eyes leak all day though she swears

she isn’t crying) (oh she’s sad all right,

anxious too, but those eyes, they just leak)

They just leak. That’s how it is now with eyes.

That’s how it is with mood and soul and poetry.

Peggy has the Real Toads writing about eyes.