Volatile, Anna Koeferl
I once read that an eye
could be removed from its socket,
the optic nerve still attached
Can you imagine such a careful operation?
I imagine a white coat surgeon—
a doctor, perhaps,
steady hands lovingly twisting the scalpel and pin,
circles onto circles onto circles,
lens onto iris onto pupil,
all comes scooping out.
The sound would be like
rubber balls squeezing
through cracks on a wooden floor.
I want to know
what the eye can see after,
unable to close or turn away,
what do we miss in the space between blinking?
What would it show us,
a tethered, bulbous orb,
slowly shriveling dry and red
as molten rubies bleed through the cracking veins.