THE BOBBING SUN #poetry by jay

It’s the fevered pitch of the monotony that unleashes a torrent of complaints, the kind that rattle’s her tongue like a possession. Unforgiven of the battle that wrestled her soul, torn from her breast early before dawn. The sun handed down with a gentle bobbing blaze while hot tea bags float in teacups until deciding, yes 1 cube and no spoon, then she placed the cube between her teeth, slowly sipping the brew of darkness that engulfed the room, “This is how we drink our tea, you should do it too” but I ignore the plea and state, “I’ll ladle the soup” as you poke and prod at the decision to mourn or to bless this life you were given, despite the love held back from your suckling youth, like bud’s unborn or like that cube of sweet sugar you sucked and suckled like a pig’s babe, starving, suckling for more and more and more. I question the history fed that day, as if it were written in stone as an ancestral rite of passage, a way to bemoan the pain and the passing of the past. The ripping and scorning of truth blasted into the universe, lost in vacant dew drops that fall from the vines and the breasts of women and the men besieged by a stealing of their time and life spent in the bobbing sun—watching as it went down in a blazing ball— an arson, a scorched-earth burning, a lost recall.

Photo by Eugene Lazovsky on Unsplash