S I O B H A N H A R V E Y
To The Boy With The Saddest Eyes Ever
Of course, I hear the stories;
they fall from the tongues of drinking pals –
parties that last forever,
the boy so smashed
he spent the night wrapped in a carpet,
or woke up days after the first beer,
dizzy, in the bed of some beauty
who’d already stolen his watch, rings, heart.
A reflection of a soul,
I’d shine his eyes like diamonds,
bathe them in saline,
or roll them in my hands
like a die, if it would help.
But no amount of boiling,
no amount of alcohol
would revive the tenderness in his eyes.
And no amount of polishing
might brighten the legends that precede him
like Cyclops, like Lear.
For the boy wants
what we all want,
wants what my lover has found in me -
a fable; a spark; a stranger’s glare
meeting his across a crowded room.
Most of all, he wants a soft heartburn
that will see him right for life.