Confessions of a Solar Daughter by Shelly Norris

I stole those things:

The King’s minted silver coins and the Debutante’s

molded sugar basket, sweet collectable souvenirs of Camelot;

the fermenting liquid cherry-centered chocolate gifts;

the soft, still-warm pelts of a child’s slaughtered pets.

Oh, and this; the rhythm and tone of the demented

priest’s song.  I hid them here.

 

From where you are

you can’t see them

multiplying.  As if I were indestructible.  No one intercedes

anywhere for me.  The trees, why even the trees masquerade

in ways I understand and loathe.

 

Brushing my henna hair in the rain, finally, I know your god

is not a woman.  He does not flame.  He is unfriendly

and indifferent, and he is too small.

Concealing from me the sky and road; these were buried

in ice.  Divinity ignores me and smolders like the smoke

of cold fire inside its own eternal

absence.                                   So many years I wandered.

 

Before all of this, the destructive and informal jugglers

walked off the stage dragging their blunt and hollow toys.

I couldn’t instruct them then, but I can now—

because of making up for the lost

dreams.  They surface and press;

naked, I smile and juggle and they juggle in the solar eclipse

wearing my old costumes.  They crown me

Queen of the Living.

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Categories: Issue 2 - Spring 2012, Periodicals, Poetry | Tags: | Leave a comment

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