Once, he gave us his glass eye.
It traveled down and up the rows —
the way of everything we shared that year.
He sat on the corner of his desk,
gesturing with the heavy long-jawed stapler.
“It’s made by hand,” he said.
“The iris is a perfect circle canvas
painted with a tiny sable brush,
chestnut colors smudged gold and blue,
the black pupil shaded to look
like it can actually expand and contract.
The blood vessels are frayed red
silk threads laid down on the milky white.

We listened, soldier straight,
folded our hands like monks.
waiting to receive this piece of him.
He wanted us to marvel at the artistry
We wanted to see the caved-in back.

When it came,
our palms opened like a book.
We closed our eyes
and stroked the place
that rubbed his eye lid raw.
Our teacher loved us
and he saw.