Now she's weakening in the sky—
a weedy thing, strung out,
drunkly tumbling on the blue.
Were I stronger, or made
of hydrogen, I could burn faster.
But this is winter: two sparrows
pecking an apple core.
When it's love: the apple is on fire.
O Sun, teach me to consume, to blaze,
make me visible again.
© 2006 Lauren Mitchell
grew up in DC, but ran away to California at 14. She moved to Ecuador at 20, and then to Hawaii a few years later. Now she's back in DC, finishing her BA and working on her first poetry collection, about her time in California. Her poems have appeared in such journals as Pebble Lake Review and 2River view.
