Birth of the Sun
Across the bathroom floor,
the house shrouded
in a caul of night,
I lie face up.
In spite of cool tiles
against bare skin,
my five-year-old body
arcs from fever.
Mother and Father
crouch over me, swab my torso
with rubbing alcohol.
My heart turns to lava,
leaks out my pores, swirls
into a mass above my parents’ backs.
There is no movement toward the light –
I am the source.
***
Day 1 of napowrimo at Read Write Poem and Poetic Asides. I’m trying to do both challenges, because I’m an over achiever like that. Today’s prompt from Poetic Asides is to write an origin poem. Jill’s prompt is to make up a metaphor and include it in the poem.
Jill has asked us to gather 50 words as part of this month of poetry writing. If you have a cool word or two you’d like to donate to my personal cause, please leave it here in the comments section. Thanks!


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