your eyes are just like Hitler’s.
same with your brown hair; it’s been before-
but those blue eyes.
So what is distinguishable- if all our pieces are reused and recycled
in the shape of another similar body? If it’s all the same-
the golden hair, the freckles, that small mole on your upper arm—
You’re not the first to have.
Certainly never the last.
When you pass, someone will claim those eyes;
your son, or perhaps a complete stranger.
They will be in the world, continually—
as the only way to deal with death. The only way
to explain longevity, your baby boy
carrying your eyes until another takes his place.
And someone will kill him, someone will trash him through
the heart; he’ll succeed in all things war. and those eyes will hit the ground and
be simultaneously reborn in the screaming infant
produced with downs syndrome, but those blue eyes.
what things shall they see, what specimen they ingest.
what goods they will steal.
and there was evening and morning.
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