A Story About Stained Glass

When every glance is a worry — when desires can’t formulate into decisions—when you answer on the first ring to keep up appearances — when you only see the world as imbalanced and crumbling—

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Cut your iris into letters of an alphabet you don’t speak—symbols of a culture you think you can’t connect with.

Cut your iris into the shapes of your organs—a lump of a heart, a thin network of veins, a wing-shaped lung.

Cut your iris into smaller and smaller triangles — glue them onto your fingernails — wipe away your tears — disfigure your sad face with the muddy mosaic decorating your fingertips.