When we took them to the Blue Angels’ airshow,

lenses gave us the cockpit skinny on whether EJECT

was a button like the forebear of a pinball flipper

or Mixmaster switch. They parsed klieg lights

donning a multiplex deemed Southern mothership.

A California travelogue my parents recite

consists of street-crossing tarantulas

the size of hairy binoculars.

Put a spider to your eye

socket and it’s a phenom nine-sclera—

Dad’s parachute, sapphire cherubin.

The last time I looked into a pair,

he had a bladder.

My best memory of us is 11 p.m.

and he wants binoculars for December

saucers. The local news takes his call.

All years should end with a spaceship.

Because I see in colander vision,

my pupil contracts for a strand of linguini,

Dad’s dinner plates camouflaging parsley

armories. When I flew after thirteen years of not,

he was seated on my left. Wisconsin siblings

in the row ahead de-panicked their sister.

My small talk would’ve been the Dells

turning blue. Spotted with bricolage

binoculars, a father calming

his mid-thirties son,

our limbo cloud-cobbled. 

He’s the non-nervous surgery

type. You need a telescope

for any tremble. He

will never urinate again,

the binoculars’ lenses

polishable by up to five

years of doctor visits,

perishable each week.