An image as red as Mars floats
in front of me on the computer.
Lines like canals on the red planet
can be seen. It's my one good eye.
A digital photograph
taken by my doctor.
My doctor
points out the terrain,
the fine nerves...
You have a healthy eye,
she says. We'll add the picture
to your album and track
its changes from year
to year.
For the moment I'm reassured.
But
my father had glaucoma.
He saw haloes
everywhere.
You're young, but my vision gets slightly worse
each year. In a few years
will my sight begin to blur
like a window fogged
in condensation?
Nothing scares me
as much as blindness.
Nothing is more isolating.
Will I become the man who stands frozen
at an intersection,
terrified of crossing?
Will you remember me, my friend?
Will you take me
by the elbow?
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