There’s this myth
that summer is carefree
when indeed it’s just the bright leaves
returning that obscures the view
of the skeletons;
wanting to replace all the lost things
just like the leaves returning to the trees,
where are those green jade teardrops
stolen from my mother’s ears?
I am the god looking down
at five suns in a bowl,
five perfect gold yolks
suspended in their own cosmos,
deciding whether to smash them
or fry them whole.
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