Tartarean Sun

Under which she pruned

the peach trees and a tiny gateway

opened in her spine. That pain

distilled there like a drop

of molten glass. And was the first of many

chambers to form.

There was her bedroom,

where she bloomed

in the white fog of sleep

and so loved the burgundy curtains

which kept out the sun.

That one day I would learn

there was a god of thresholds,

and I’d come to loathe his purpose.

But not then. The bedroom filled

with dust, which, small as I was,

still left me no space to cross.