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Next, the Ears 

Callista Buchen

In the evenings, house asleep, I try to take out my eyes and put them in a glass of water on the blue nightstand next to the bed. But another pair pops into place, not unlike the yogurt that slides down each time I take a new one out of the cooler at the grocery store where I forgot to buy eggs. I take out my eyes until the glass of water is full, the eyes at the top barely in the water, red-stained and itching. I gaze at my eyes, coolly, as if I distrust them, and then we all laugh, the way you can with your eyes. We are fluid, open like a face. Maybe we didn’t even want the eggs. By the time someone starts crying, the glass of water is a glass of water, and all the eyes are back in line, pair by pair.