An Ode to Taking my Glasses On and Off

This is an ode to the fact that I will never have 20/20 vision 

but the witchcraft contained in two chunks of glass can take my 20/400 to— 

on a good day— 

20/40.  

To running into door frames and poorly positioned furniture,  

the sparkle of lost sewing pins and  

spider’s webs. 

To getting by. 

To always sitting in the front most seats  

to headaches and squinting  

and staring at strangers by accident 

to staring at strangers on purpose but being able to pretend it was an accident. 

To staring. 

This is a poem for tweezers, 

superglue and duct tape fixes,  

Christmas Stocking repair kits that I lost before January 

and new glasses mangled by March. 

A toast to the salvaged skeletons of bread bag twist ties that became makeshift hinges 

and the rush of godliness that comes from MacGyvering your own eyesight back together. To the missing screws and nose pads long forgotten. A shout out, in particular, to the right— 

that’s from my side, not yours— 

hand arm of my glasses that seems to be near constantly fucked up in one way or another because I twist them off like you rip a hangnail. Here’s to childproof hinges on adult glasses, here’s to adult glasses on a little girl who wants to be grown up already. A little girl who thought she’d take these glasses off when she was big enough.  

This is an ode to every time someone’s taken my glasses off to kiss me 

and it felt like losing control— 

and, while we’re here, a poem for everyone who asked first— 

even better, those who left my vision intact— 

to everyone who’s pushed my glasses up my nose when they were sitting crooked— 

credit to the right arm, that’s my right, not yours— 

and every friend who’s stolen them to ogle at the blurry, magnified world beyond them. 

A poem for the woman who decided that she’s big enough to keep the glasses on, to not knowing a face without them. This is a song for the way my glasses sit perfectly on the bump in my stupid Italian nose and balance the rest of my face, to the way my baby cousin cries when I take them off. To my eyeliner being crooked on purpose because the prescription in the left eye— 

that’s my side, not yours— 

is stronger and the left eye is constantly fucked up in one way or another but it’s not as if you can see my eyes half of the time 

here’s to foggy lenses and fingerprints 

to t-shirt hems and dollar store glasses wipes  

Here’s to taking my glasses off and reducing the world to terms of light and color, to blurry Pointillism paintings, to take off my glasses so I can see the moon as something more than a reflection. To being more amazed by the feel of fireworks than the sight of them. To not seeing anyone on the left until they’re close enough to scare you, to feeling things before you see them— 

This is an ode to taking off my glasses and not having to see a goddamn thing.