The last time I felt at ease anywhere under the sun,
I couldn’t tell you. But I do remember how it shines–
its warmth on my face. When I was young, too bright
for my own good, I believed in the sooth of others, on
depending on it. I guess I still almost do. I’ve my old
wounds. Years later, after several someones scrawled
their sun on my heart, I found this a separate kind
of theft, like summer dissolving into a moody winter
for the lack of fall. It’s no wonder our circles narrow, on
and on. But it doesn’t have to be an unrelenting spiral.
I write wound and share this queer and distant grieving
so that someone may read it, and for a second, find
in themselves some kind of familar space, our shared
distant and half-remembered home.