Subsolar

An ode to my mother.

Book’s text:

The woodworking knife slipped off the dowel and
cut through the fleshy part of my left index
finger.

I kissed the wound
and tasted metal
down my
throat. Queasiness
made me dizzy

and as my mom tenderly pressed the bandage to my
throbbing finger, and I laid flat on my bed.

I saw anatomical drawings of
carpals and phalanges and flexors
fly through my head as I calculated
whether any important tendons had
been cut. My mom dispels my worry.

The
early
winter
sunlight
was
purple
and cast
soft
pale
shadows
on the
ceiling.

Uncharacteristically warm, the December skies
still held birds. I listened to their song and
closed my eyes and steadied my mind.

These months are sooty,
stained with ashen
clouds, somber skies,
and fading days.

We’re subsolar, in a permanent squeeze between
earth and fire. The sun never leaves entirely.

She floats in through cracks in the trees, seams
in the walls, reflections off of melted ice.

Softly, through the slats of my window screen,
onto my bandaged finger.

Like my mother, she comforts me. She was there
this morning as I combed my hair,

and yesterday through the bus’s windows,

last month in the
bathtub, and in the
summer as the gorge
water flowed across
my stomach.

She was there when I
fell and a pebble
caught in my knee,

and when I chased
after white
butterflies, and
when I feared
jumping into the
pool.

I have always been subsolar, blanketed by the
warmth that she emanates.

My mother, the sun.