by Jak Emerson Kurdi

She whispered to me, Stargardt’s,
(rare, genetic) across the porch
one morning, saying it faded away

slow, like watching the ripe mango
shades of sunlight slip farther
and farther away from the narrow eye

of a rear-view mirror. You don’t have it,
but I hold it when my hand finds
the crook of her arm in a parking lot

(minefield) and detects the seven-inch
wrist-to-elbow scar carved by the one
time I walked too far ahead. What’s left

of her retina is barely the width of a waning
moon, and every visit I notice that more
of her soft parts are painted with plum

and sulfur bruises. She has never seen
it, but my eyes are always trained
on her face, hoping I can catch her

smile when the streak of a cherry
Chevrolet hums by at dusk, with its flying
chrome and lights, and looks like the light

of a sparkler trail, or when the mangled
mirage of my grandfather fishing for bass
out back makes her snort –

he looks just like the Boy Scout
I married, but twisted
like a carnival mirror..