The birds peck out her eyes
Becca Borawski Jenkins
The birds fly in the girl's window at night and peck out her eyes. They peck out her eyes completely each night, but her eyes grow back by morning so when the daylight cuts through her curtains and sears her eyelids open she might completely forget anything happened if only she didn't remember it so clearly. Each night the birds peck out her eyes and by morning her eyes have regrown like a starfish, formed like pearls, replaced with the borrowed organs of Lazarus Long.
Each morning when she looks in the mirror her eyes are a different color. Each night when the birds peck out her eyes they leave behind a different colored seed. Each night a different dimension offers up a different donor—a her that is her but not quite her. A her with blue eyes, and then brown, and then hazel, and then aquamarine. It's been so long she cannot remember the color of her first eyes.
Without fail, her mother fails to notice that she shows up to the breakfast table with someone else's eyes each morning, the eyes of a different person each morning. It has been a long time since the girl showed up with her own eyes and she wonders if her mother has forgotten the color of her first eyes, as well. Her mother pours the milk without speaking because neither can hear a word over the conversation of the puffed rice.
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