The Sun

L. E. Francis


Earthbound & bright, still
glowing as if there could be
a point in glowing — all that
energy just to burn & be
seen — while the best parts
of being alive are see-through.

Your skin may as well be the same
as the pattern as the wall because
nobody gives a shit about you,
what you do, or if your hair is a mess;
it’s a generous feeling & it makes you
feel the same — just living

is no better or no worse; something
so satisfying in being alive &
disregarded, in not hating it
at least for now. Feels as if
your mother had tucked you in
under your green bunny quilt

& you almost forgot your condition —
my condition, our collective
condition — bones & nerves
& muscles & skin haunted
& occupied. No way to smoke
the bastard out of this house —

& no exorcist has the right — in nomine
patris — faith or fear to evict this
squatter — et Spiritus Sancti. No prayer
to cure or cast out, no way of telling
which parts are bone or phantom
from the inside. Seems the joy

is in the forgetting, in seeing the whole &
not the parts, in a high-noon sun screaming
our shadows back into our heels.




L.E. Francis is a multiple medium procrastinator living among the Washington Cascades. Her poetry has appeared in Mookychick, Nightingale & Sparrow, Marías at Sampaguitas, and Moonchild Magazine. Find her online at