Work Text:
You hold
the light of the world in
your tiny hands.
The smooth glass
pressing against your fingertips
careful
not to drop it
in fear of what it’d cause.
You can trace the wiring
(‘tungsten’, you once heard your dada say)
glowing softly
pulsating gently
It looks just like the lightbulb in your home.
How can
this be the sun?
How can
the sun be this?
The sun
should be
a giant ball of fire in the sky,
full of life and
energy.
The sun
should not be
something you have to put back
clasped in tiny hands
of a messiah who never
wanted to be here
who just wanted to go home.
But if you do
you will be trapped
within this world
between four grey walls ever so slightly out of reach
never to feel the rustle of grass
golden wheat under a golden sky
the taste of warm pancakes
drizzled in golden-brown syrup
(you’d miss
the honey-sweet embrace of your mama)
And if the glass
were to shatter at your feet
this world would scatter
like the million piercing pieces
on the unnaturally smooth floor.
The blues of leftover rays
feathers and a cheeky smile
The greens of organic lights
vines and a last request
The reds of heated lamps
set eyes and a lonely sigh
would all
scramble, even if they were only
pixels on a screen.
I have
only played god;
I do not
have all the answers
even if you (and I) pretended otherwise.
When you looked at me
with those
hope and trust filled eyes
carrying
the weight of a heavy question:
Return the sun or Return home?
How was
I to react?