By: Anya Bochman
There are tornadoes on the sun
Big as your head and yet
You'll never know because, for one,
the force of gravity is cruel; it bends our
burdens towards the earth, 'til all we see
is feet (is egocentrism strong enough,
and does the bending of our knees keep
this globe moving round its core, or are we helpless as an ant,
as the ants of Herodotus, oblivious to the gold before us?)
But I digress; they say when Helios was in the sky
your head was like a pane of glass,
your brain exposed like an ambered fly,
like wine inside a jug with your ears as handles.
I do believe if I could see your thoughts
I'd pin them like a thousand moths
Upon my sunless darkful shelf
So that, when pressing my skull
against a window, regretting this sin or that,
I could instead palpate the crevice of your mind,
Dark eyelashes over too-large eyes,
and feel within a long-dead space
a ghost of hope.
