CASSANDRA, Toti O’Brien

 
Her left eyelid would remain closed
for a while, sealed to the cornea
by an afterthought, a residue
of old, burning tears.
 
She waited patiently for her mind
to release vision. Shards
of so-called insight, though what
she believed she saw was far out. 
 
What she believed she saw
were flashes hitting sideways
horizontal blades aimed at her chest
her waist or her limbs.
 
They indented. They didn’t slash.
They released pain like cutting
does. Like cutting
they were blessings.
 
They, the insights, came with wings
and haloes. They wore white
and were rimmed with gold.
So she said.
 
Intermittent.
Sudden, fond of velocity.
Sighed within a murmur.
Poignant and vague.
 
Climbing up and down her spine
as if on a ladder.
Then, her eyelid unglued itself.
Slowly, daylight came in.