Optics

The priest was halfway to the kingdom of heaven,

his voice a low drone like a distant plane,

when the man in the front row shifted his weight

and the plastic snapped like a dry chicken bone.

He’d left them on the cushion, tortoiseshell and thick.

I saw the glint of a jagged lens

settle into the pile of the blue carpet

while the widow bowed her head.

It was a terrible, sharp sound in the quiet,

the sort of small disaster that makes the chest shake.

I had to bite my lip until it bled,

staring at the ruin of his vision

while we waited for the dirt to start.