“Snail tracks,” he says,
smudged across
the edge of my left eye.

The doctor points
to the screen
a watercolor splash
of green, red,
orange cosmos.

“A type of lattice,” he says, 
and explains it is like
my retinas brace
for liftoff.

The flashes I see,
lightning in a dark room,
are like thrusters
fired for the journey. 

I wonder if there is 
a secret, alien garden
growing around my periphery.

I wouldn’t be surprised
if star-dotted leaves sprouted,
joined in swirling webs

across my optic nerve,
nebulous kudzu to change 
the world I see,
slow me to a snail’s pace,
and breathe.