Seeing through the Sun

How dishonest the sun,

making ruined cities

look like dust.

In that country of light

there is no supper

though the sun’s marketplace

reveals the legs inside young women’s skirts,

burning round oranges,

wheat loaves,

and the men’s uniforms with shining buttons.

We are polite in the sun

and we ask for nothing

because it has hit the walls with such force.

But when the sun falls

and we are all one color

and still in danger

we tell each other

how this child was broken open by a man,

this person left with only fingerprints.

Sometimes one of us

tries to stand up to the light.

Her skin burns red as a liar

in fear’s heat.

So in the light we say only,

Never mind, I was just passing through

the universe. It’s nothing.

But there are times we tell the truth;

Sun, we see through you

the flashing of rifles and scythes.

Let’s stand up. The enemy

is ready for questions.

There is light coming in beneath the door.

Stop it with a rag.

There is light entering a keyhole.

Cover it with your hand

and speak, tell me everything.