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Poetry Town: Memory of a Sunday in Main South Anna Hill Special to Worcester Magazine Nana only had one eye. As a little girl, I remember looking with horror and fascination upon its glass replica as it sat bathing in a cup on the bathroom sink. A thick robe hung on the back of the door and the buzz of the fluorescent lights on each side of the mirrored medicine cabinet harmonized with the sounds of family in the next room. The hazel iris met my gaze unabashedly, wavering only when two of the tiny air bubbles that had formed in the solution merged and were forced up and off of the eye’s surface.

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