Kutlesh

Some suns crack the mountain

Into nothing, burned

Fragments of memory written nowhere

But on the backs of rotted teeth.

To the east, we are someone else,

To the south, we are no one at all, and

To the west, somehow, less.

Our sun, not permitted

To adorn manhole covers

Or church walls. I’ve thought about

Tucking it under my arm for safety.

My mother says

Your limbs will be tied to horses

To pull the sun away from you too.

To change your name too.