sunny prisoning

the sun rises every morning - it is rarely late

and I wake up to its warmth, 

rays carressing my mother's new curtains

my mother says the sun rises because God wakes her up

my father does not refute

but, he says,

it is because the earth rotates on its axis

we are all part of a cosmic struggle bigger than us

my sister charges her tarot cards under the moon

the sun does not possess the same celestial power

my therapist tells me to see the sun every day

something about vitamins and minerals and happiness

i was trapped in my room like a prisoner in May

falsifying June, recreating July in that dark apartment

I woke up and the sun did not know

my parents could only ever hope

hope that the apartment was kind

trust that the food was warm and plenty

but a prisoner does not live comfortably

there are no sins or virtues, he borrows no meaning from others

for what is life if owned by what yields the sun?

what is life if abandoned by this power?

yet

the sun rose

and it was rarely late

and when my legs dropped from my bed,

my feet felt proof of her warmth on the -

now hot - tiles of my apartment