When grandma died they took her eyes, they pulled her eyes out for science.
Right out of her damn head. I wonder, if they popped or plopped or squelched or squeaked. But, in that moment, I know
three ghosts came to be.
One ghost for grandma’s body, and one ghost for each eye. That’s three, all together. Count ‘em—three. When they took grandma’s body away, the ghost of her body woke up in the morgue.
But it couldn’t see. Swung each foot down, waddled out the door. Bumped into things, searched with its hands and fingers for a directory, hoping to find its way around. Said aloud, “Maybe everything in heaven is in Braille.” It made its way through doors and rooms, along halls and walls.
The ghost-eyes woke up in storage. They were together, but laid helplessly. For years they saw and saw, for years they did nothing but see. Discoveries wondrous, and discoveries horrifying. Events mundane and events electrifying. Some days they wished they couldn’t see. Other days they wished they could see more and more. They at times felt blind, and they at times felt omniscient. They came to forget what it was all like before.
Grandma’s ghost-body somehow made it to 2nd Avenue. It somehow managed to sit itself down at a bar and ordered three drinks. One for that day, one for when the left eye showed up, and one for when the right came toddling after.
“Maybe they’ll grow legs one day,” Grandma’s ghost-body said. “Maybe they’ll roll like wheels, like rollerblades, or learn to bounce like rubber balls. Maybe they’ll one day grow wings and fly here and,
I’ll see again.”
Renwick Berchild is half literary critic, half poet. She is lead editor of Green Lion Journal and writes at Nothing in Particular Book Review. Her poems have appeared in Porridge Mag, Headline Press, Whimperbang, Free Verse Revolution, Vita Brevis, Streetcake, and other e-zines, anthologies, and journals. She was born and raised on the angry shores of Lake Superior, and now lives in a micro-apartment in Seattle, WA. Find more of her work at www.renwickberchild.com