Dothead

Well yes, I said, my mother wears a dot.

I know they said "third eye" in class, but it's not

an eye eye, not like that. It's not some freak

third eye that opens on your forehead like

on some Chernobyl baby. What it means

is, what it's showing is, there's this unseen

eye, on the inside. And she's marking it.

It's how the X that says where treasure's at

is not the treasure, but as good as treasure.—

All right. What I said wasn't half so measured.

In fact, I didn't say a thing. Their laughter

had made my mouth go dry. Lunch was after

World History; that week was India—myths,

caste system, suttee, all the Greatest Hits.

The white kids I was sitting with were friends,

at least as I defined a friend back then.

So wait, said Nick, does your mom wear a dot?

I nodded, and I caught a smirk on Todd—

She wear it to the shower? And to bed?—

while Jesse sucked his chocolate milk and Brad

was getting ready for another stab.

I said, Hand me that ketchup packet there.

And Nick said, What? I snatched it, twitched the tear,

and squeezed a dollop on my thumb and worked

circles till the red planet entered the house of war

and on my forehead for the world to see

my third eye burned those schoolboys in their seats,

their flesh in little puddles underneath,

pale pools where Nataraja cooled his feet.

Originally appeared in The New Yorker; collected in Dothead (Knopf, 2016).