by: Olivia J. Kiers Black letters vanish into white walls, as I’m told to concentrate on a tiny sun Sometimes it splits in two— near and far, blurry and sharp. Or that one?” Her watch band glints, Lens-spots shift with butterfly clicks. There are two points in every migration: which is maybe a swarm of insects to be hummed on dark highways: will catch the night-bound glitter And which the earth’s blue ocean, About the Author
Optometrist Visit
then white walls vanish into a black room
dancing from one eye to the other.
there are two apsides in every orbit:
The optometrist asks, “Is it this one?
vision of an asteroid belt, peripheral.
The phoropter has midnight wings.
here and there—and between, a dotted line
or string of letters, or maybe a whole verse
hi-beam, lo-beam. And which pupil
of a farther star?
a growing cloud, a hurricane?
Raised in rural Virginia, Olivia J. Kiers is a poet and museum professional now based near Worcester, Massachusetts. Her poetry has been published in The Oakland Review, Twin Pies Literary, Variant Lit, and West Trade Review, among others. She was the poetry co-editor of Crack the Spine from 2018-2020.
