Today, I am grateful for
the sun that reproaches—Only when I was gone, she says, that you begged for me.
The cup of water in my palm guides me softly from spillage. It rests on my crown like a kite, afloat. In the living room, the phone rings and I answer, voices spilling in. The guard tells me the sun has wandered yet arrived, the sun that goads me from recline when I have worked through the night.
My finger traces the markings on the wall, the ones that I made when I was only five. I trace the rim of the cup on the crown of my head. The smell of dust overwhelms.
The feet I walk in take me to the lobby. I greet the sun. She carries with her dead leaves in her palm.