in response to O’hara and the tough things

Anna Gibbs ‘19

 The sun has slipped from the sky.

It is sleeping.

It will not rouse for my sake.

It will rise only when the mountains

toss it onto their ridges,

when moon fizzes into white-blue sky, 

when stars start to yawn.

It will not wake early for me.

It will not rise early for me,

it will not shift in its sleep,

it will not have nightmares,

it will not wake up in sweat, afraid. 

It will never be disrupted in its path.

I say, good.

How fearful it would be if the sun rose 

for every anxious blade of grass,

every tear-swollen cloud, 

every plaintive sparrow sob.

Better, this way.

May I depend on you being there only

in the mornings; I will see you there. 

Star! I want only a simple star, 

on which no one depends. Rose, 

can I have you only? When you die,

I will be alone. I have never been alone.

Even the sun moves under the earth at night.

Alone, no one will read my poetry.

No one will sing in the desert.

I will not sing beside you.

I will be a single star in the desert.

No moon. 

No dawn to break to.