today the sun

Victoria Mullis

today the earth the stars and everything with it shining 

just outside my window. today the curtains left open 

nina simone and coffee with three creams. today—

all right—just okay but i’ll take it. take it and anything

other than the sun in my face at a 90-degree angle

the silence sticking to the soles of my shoes shouting  shame—look how far you haven’t come see the stretch 

at the end of the road where you lie lie lies

of a distant yesterday subsided by pins and needles 

extended hospital stays with muted sobs 

over the phone a bed a window a bed a window 

a bed a window a door the pain in your stomach 

when you speak of it don’t speak of it—it doesn’t exist

if you don’t speak of it so today the breeze coming in

through the window today the transparency of now

and forever calling each other by the same name 

today the smell of freshly cut grass the touch 

of a lover beneath the sheets heat rising rising rise.

to the occasion—to the soft rebuttal of time speaking

in tongues speaking in a language only two can hear 

fingers tapping the keys of a piano to sound the crickets  bellowing out into the night into darkness a familiar face  detected and memorized claiming that you have been wronged  wronged wrong—I am the pale moon against the surface

of the sea I begin and end with my tongue down your throat  pulling pulling pull yourself up envision a time a today 

where the sun doesn’t burn but seeps down and sleeps

it seeps down and sleeps and remembers a life a before—

this body a summertime noon—this body a voice

just over the horizon beckoning me to stay.

Victoria Mullis is a writer from Franklin, Indiana. Her work has previously been published in Sheriff Nottingham and Punch Drunk Press. She plans to pursue a degree in Creative Writing in the fall of 2019.

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