Annie Blake
The Sun in the Sling
i am good at watching. i showed her eyes
what i look like marinated in her blood.
i fired up her body; she wishes she could propel
heat like me. but i am not her mother—
it is entirely up to her in the end. and how the cosmos
schedules its day. it can be different depending
on where the world’s heading or which country
she is in. one man tells her he loves her.
he tells her the leaves cool him
down when i’m high. i promise to give her my hands—
they spin like the blades of windmills
because she wants to be electricity.
i tell her to undo her shirt and not place so much emphasis on her intellect.
she does well to listen. she leans in. the other man
tells her he loves her but he can be very insensitive.
the car fumes absorb the earth’s wind
as they come to him like lashes. she can see into his mouth
when he chews.
it is a breeze for her—she sees how glossy and well oiled
he is; just like his daddy. it is easier not to go there. she is already heavy
with her own projections. she hangs them over her shoulders
like leather coats. these slight winds show her the blueness
of the sky like the lion flower does when it presses its lips together to drink up its roar—
her blood is crackling with transparency.
the wetness that emerges is multi-dimensional.
she holds me and tells me she knows it is not a sin
to watch how the sky holds me in balance.
she has already seen the trundle wheel cutting her
up like bread. she swallows—her water cools me
and i turn into the star that slides down like a gold coin releasing
her lungs from purgatory. she feels me rush down; she wants to touch me.
i will watch her try—she doesn’t know waiting like this makes me burn.
