My eyes are becoming black disks, he says.

Dec 1, 2016

Into a box marked for me, he tucks pages

of alien skies. Scrawled in strange characters

in his hand on napkins and grocery bags,

the pages are an indecipherable manuscript,

his magnum opus, a concerto of poor eyesight

woven into the fabric of an abduction memory.

My eyes are becoming black disks, he says.

Though this is the first I’ve heard of the greys

that pulled him and his kid brother out

of a hungry day in the Great Depression

and lifted them into a silver spaceship.

I don’t challenge him, just remind him to take

his pills, drink his water. I’ll be gone soon, he says.

Don’t worry. I look at him and agree that his skin

does look a bit grey.

34MAG