and they ask me, with audacity in their lungs, “do you remember the sun?” do I remember the sun? what a foolish question. it’s like asking the river if she knows the rocks, the ocean if it knows the dark, the forest if it knows its hart. oh yes, I remember the sun and all her beauty and terror and woolen spun. and she is in my veins, like the stars are in your eyes. gold ichor, your kind mistook mine for holy. they did not ask why the fairy tale is Grimm. or realize that we’re speaking lessons, not wishes, not hymn. and so they wander the woods looking for something they can call home. oh young, young soul... return back to what you’ve known. this place is not yours to own.















