Burnt by a Sun God
by Jane Rosenberg LaForge
There are many suns, but
fewer gods: Apollo
and his offspring,
in magnetic disturbances that bring out
the Northern Lights and the man
who told me how unimportant I was
at a friend’s wedding.
In those days, Apollo’s children spun off
his palms clockwise and counter,
as if arranged for birth from the disc
that bears seeds and feed
for us mortals with our mere appetites
and pitches to stand beside
the indomitable
just to be tinged
by their lies and fire.
I am a fish out of water, one of them said,
as much a fish as a bird forced down
from the sky as hills are consumed
and branches are deprived
of their layers and architecture.
At the intersection overwhelmed
with clinging bits of houses
and sidewalks in the storm water,
one led me on a slow reveal
in my rear view mirror
as if it was one of those mornings when I was naive
about suntans and the baby
on the Coppertone bottle.
Look at me, he seemed to be saying,
as he removed the helmet he wore on his motorcycle.
But I had moved on to another god
or perhaps just another demi-drama
and I was element, no longer apostle,
having been charred,
and made hollow.
Gyroscope Review 3
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