Belladonna

The kind ophthalmologist
informs me I have large
pupils. She says it as though
she suspects me of belladonna,
a word I’ve always wanted
to use in a poem.
‘That’s why,’ she says,
‘it feels like everything’s
coming at you, at night.’

Out in the light, a plum-
lipped sidewalk barista
pauses to appreciate
my eyes’ shape, color,
length of lashes, but does not
comment on their pupils.
I feel slighted.

It’s night, again, and
everything’s coming at me,
again. The words as I write
them bellow. Crumbs
from a cake I’ve eaten spill
over the table with shrieks
as they fall. My sweater’s
buttons flinch as I guide them
through corresponding holes.
Chairs no one’s sitting in
inch closer to me—all the fault
of my large pupils.

I take heart. I return to the kind
ophthalmologist, and I buy the glasses.