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.