As children, our faces
are often mistaken for suns,
our knees scar the earth
like grass fires; in the secret
hiding places of our hearts
our blood burns, and our
whispers shimmer like noon.
We arrive as adults, noses
dripping with sun-block,
lurching through the heat
to the nearest bar, our hearts
beating so loudly we can
no longer whisper.
As appeared in Leaning into the Mountain, Fooliar Press, Toronto, 2006.