The Sand Hill Review http://www.sandhillreview.org 2005

The last time she opened her eyes

was when they bumped her,

moving her from the gurney.

Her eyelids, long closed,

flickered. I caught a glimpse

of pale irises, yellow-tinged,

drained by the long days of dying

or by hospital lights too bright

for the hidden place her spirit

lingered. That autumn, I walked

along the shore. Sunlight shone

through curving waves, adding

gold to blue, and I remembered

the sea color of her eyes—bright

alchemy, French-Irish. And with

ancestors’ eyes at continent’s edge,

I looked out to where ships vanished,

hull down, bound for a place

that was, by all accounts, paradise.

Harlan Suits