Grounded

Pete keeps eyes in his pockets.
One summer, he and his wife visit
the JFK museum. Pete sticks googly
eyes on a bronzed Kennedy.
Upon seeing the President,
Pete’s wife snaps, ‘Grounded.’
She drops his eyes in her crocodile
purse. That night Pete buys more.
Creeps back to their room. Glues
pupils to his sleeping wife’s lids.
She stares, a sudden drunk, snoring.
He gives sight to her nose, lips,
ears, forehead, until she is covered.
‘Divorce,’ he whispers.
She turns over, rattling, omniscient.

Quinn White is an MFA poetry candidate at Virginia Tech. Her work has appeared in Hot Metal Bridge, The Straddler, A Clean, Well-Lighted Place, A Bad Penny Review, and is forthcoming in The Sow’s Ear Poetry Review and Bayou Magazine.

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