By Eleanore Arnold-Moore
As a kid
I could follow the sun across
horizons, I could twist the green ease
of my neck in tandem with the crowd,
assuming that the leaves of all
our arms could hold
the same amount
of sunlight.
Now, still a kid
but ancient, I can barely keep my head
lifted till dusk, eyelids gilded
with possibility and feeling
like a burden, creaking
in a field of spines
that mistake my wilting for misery
who think losing petals is the only
sign of sickness, that yellow
means I’m healthy.
I was made to choose
one horizon, to have the sun move with-
out me, noticed only for my stillness,
learning you do not
have to chase the light
for it to return.