An American’s Iranian Optometrist in Kent

My optometrist is in training. He asks me to move closer.

Says he’ll switch off the light soon. Place your chin in the strap.

I obey. He apologises –

they are observing, watching through the window,

waiting to see if he’ll make money for the business.

I’m embarrassed. It seems like I don’t know what I’m doing.

No, I reassure him – but, yes, he seems uncertain.

I did this for twenty years in Tehran. And a crack opens.

I just nudge at it, ask when he came over. August.

And we both fall silent.

He asks me to focus on the black dots;

he slides them over, over, back and forth. Now?

Now? Which one is clearer?

When he asks where I’m from, I respond California.

Always California. I reach for what I know –

warm, desert, hopeful for commonality, the only one

we’ll acknowledge here: warm and foreign. We’re both

from warm, foreign places, and we’ve learned how to talk

about the weather.

Dots and letters slide back and forth, light in the darkness

bringing sight into focus before it goes out.

We leave in silence knowing they’re watching us

wondering if I’ll come back, wondering what I’ll buy.

Miriam Swales