Cataracts

Poetry

Photo by Udit Chandra on Unsplash

Drop after drop, I prepared for surgery
convinced that this condition was named
from the deluge of waxy water applied
to my weary eyes before the procedure
even began.

An optometrist’s plea was no longer required
as road signs served as routine eye exams,
text within books washed away into oblivion,
and emails were composed of letters as legible
as streaks on hot-shower glass.

Surrounded by a nebula of nurses, I lean back
and take off into the unknown.

I’m comfortably numb as I journey into a vortex
of kaleidoscopic color.

I am an astronaut aboard a nuclear
plasma-powered vessel
rocketing through stargate space,
a Kubrick space odyssey.

But in short order, I return to earth,
landing safely, splashing down into an ocean
of promise and restored vision
and see the world once again, anew.