poetry
1 min
untitled sun poem
Андрей Рошаль
when I told you the sun tasted like honey,
you laughed, a sound like cold summer rain on hot asphalt,
and told me to come up with something a little more poetic.
i did not know how to tell you that there is nothing poetic
about the way the light sticks to my teeth and glues my mouth shut
sickly sweet on my tongue, leaving my gums blistered from the heat –
i did not know how to tell you that i think i have forgotten
how to write poems that aren't about grief in some way,
that even the sweetest sugar is somehow sour to me.
when i was fifteen i knew a boy who wrote a story about dying sunflowers:
he had so much love for the wilting petals; a gift for turning loss into something worth keeping.
when i was sixteen i wrote a poem about god falling out of the sky and dying in my arms.
i am so small and the sun is so large and i am already holding so much sadness –
i do not yet know how to set it down and make room to grasp sunlight as it is,
bright and bold and burningly beautiful.
someday i will cradle the sun in my arms and drink from its light,
sweetness spilling down my throat with gentle ease.
but first i think i have to learn how to let go.
We love sharing Short Stories
Select a Story Collection