I remember the Sunday you were born.
As our mother held you in her palms, you looked into the sky
and told God that you were going to swallow the sun.
The next morning, wild rays of light sprouted
from your tiny crown.
One twilight, you cut the warmth from your body.
Scissors to gold, you whispered to God that you wanted to feel the moon
dance in your bloodstream. You bit into the pale light
and let the night drift in.
I remember the Thursday you grabbed my wrist,
and told me you no longer felt the pull of gravity.
You were ready to float away—
the sun set on your breath
and the moon hid behind your ribcage.
Wait. I told you. Wait.
Your life is about to bloom. Crawl into hibernation.
I will wake you when it’s time.
One dawn, I shook you from your winter sleep.
You yawned and galaxies flew from your throat.
Ready then, you sprung from dead leaves
and ran.
✶✶✶✶
Talor North graduated from Weber State University with a BA in English. She is an English teacher in Northern Utah. When she’s not enlightening teens about the magic of reading and writing, she is usually in the mountains, scribbling down poems about the peculiar things her students say.
Another Chicago Magazine 