Annie Kuster
When Mom Told Me You Were Sick
Today is a cardboard box a
Pin-striped cage the
Color “grey” taking on form; it is
Summer as a sentence (not a promise).
The sun feels even farther than a million miles away, today, and
You’re another planet,
Orbiting my world without really being in it, and I—
I am here.
Even when I’m not, I’m here,
Even when I’m there (or you are),
Even when I wish we weren’t (or maybe
especially then).
If we laugh loud enough maybe the sun will move a little closer (if we make her
Jealous, the way we do—
Your laugh is made of beams of light, it flashes when I close my eyes)
And even if she stays a million miles,
You can be mine:
Sun and light and joy and I will be your
Melancholy, curled towards this world that grounds us two,
You can call me heavy in the best way:
“If light is all we are we might just float away,” so
Let me be your weight then, sunshine,
Pulling you closer to me,
Even when I’m there
(Even when you are).
—Submitted on 04/11/2020
Annie Kuster‘s work has appeared in Persephone’s Daughters, Nowhere Magazine, 404 Words, and other journals. From New Jersey, she is a graduate student at the University of Chicago.
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