Eyecup

The blue plastic eyecup of my mote-ridden boyhood still sits on the top shelf behind the bathroom mirror, at eye-level now. I remember how good cool tap water felt after the hot tears, tilting my head all the way back & willing my eyelid to open, & afterwards feeling the scar & the scare recede from that bit of grit, but also a lingering sense of guilt for letting all the water dribble to the floor or sink, how the eye that tried to take in a small piece of the earth, as if mere vision were no longer enough, had blinked away the offer of additional tears— had refused to drink.