Tartarean Sun
By Kara Krewer
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.
