Wild Fire

Sun, like looking at the
back of my eye at the
optometrist’s office, the
branches falling to its foreground.

The doctor, holding my hand
as we descend the stairs
offers me
sunglasses

like the ones I left at
Science World once the light
fell behind the Sisters.
It was this time of year.

Forehead pressed firmly
against the cool brace
she suggests I look up at
the stars

to count them and notice well.
When I pull away the mark
remains
and I’ve passed the test.