Olivia Jones
My Brother's Eyes

A tree in a pool of its own leaves made me pause today.
The intense yellow against such a saturated green was just
I wanted to capture it but the composition wasn't any good.
He was always good with composition.
My almost twin.
This scene wouldn't have caught his eye, though.
I wonder
Would he even notice the leaves on the grass?
I wonder
When did he find out he was different?
I remember when they told me

They said my brain just didn't work like other people's.
They told me there were pills for that.
Is the brain really that comparable?
The doctor told me the pills wouldn't change me, they would only fix my brain,
But isn't that where 'I' exists?
Up there in a jumble of synapses and neurons.
In Core we read philosophers who devoted booksto the question
As far as I can tell, hundreds of years later and still nobody has a good answer.

It was a while before I stopped taking the pills
I am what I make of myself
And that was that

I wonder
If they made pills for your eyes, would he take them?
Nobody thinks the soul resides in your eyeballs
Except me
Just a little bit.

I think 'I' is inextricably linked to what I see
Maybe he thinks so too
Maybe when they told him his eyes were different he heard them say
He was different.
I know if he were here I'd point that tree out to him
I'd reverently whisper something like,
"Look at those colors."
He might smile
He never says anything, but
I always remember too late.

Maybe he understands
'I' cannot help but be shaped by what I see.
My eyes are just inundated with color
Highly saturated color
Like syrup oozing across my breakfast plate
The contrast of trees after the rain
When branches are the black of unreflective pools
And leaves a shade of chartreuse so bright it makes my chest

I could drown in colors
I wish he could too.