She is sun-blazed and
peels open her eyes
like the skin off grapes.
She is a maestro
in her movements,
and beckons me
to sit with her,
as if I am a tune.
She instructs me to
button up my eyes.
Soon she’s murmuring away,
and I want to look at her
but I don’t.
Now I rely so much more
on my ears,
and her.
She says
I don’t need to worry
that my mother
doesn’t understand.
Her pleasantly warm fingers
trace my bowing lips,
and I do the same in return.
We are comfortable
even after I’ve opened my eyes.
The sun is hot
and the fiery flowers
arch and tremble
in their sendoff of the sun.
She is star-stuffed
and wraps her hand around mine,
like the skin on grapes.
.
