A tiny wind. Small birdlike
scream. At noon, a sun
with nails pins you across 
its face. As a child turning
your cheek to its gaze 
with small fingers. If you linger 
too long, the warmth becomes
a burn. Though when you 
were small, you leaned into 
the kindling.
 
You breathe in the sun's hot 
kiss, expel a lungful of 
memory. Look across blaze 
of water. Far away enough 
to look god-like, kapok trees rain
clouds. Once when you were small, 
you slept on a bed stuffed 
with clouds. Face pressed 
against the smell of other 
children's feet. 
 
Then you believed in gods
and mothers. Fires grew from 
under your skin now tender 
as new glass vitrifying. 
You press your face
into the sun. Into birdscreech.
Small fingers. You understand 
life wants a balance: sun for skin, 
fire for glass. A daughter 
for a mother.
 
You wish you weren't afraid 
of the aftermath of imbalance. 
You weigh all your stones, 
shoulder your shortfall. 
You squint at specks in the air that 
could be floaters in your eyes.
You wish for 
a gentler sun. Still you 
lean into this one.
You have no other.