Dear Sun,

Your mother hates that name.

She hates the way you kiss her goodbye

and leave the floor blistering wherever you go.

She hates it when you slam the door and leave the handle steaming.

When you came into this world you called me ‘son’ instead of ‘dad.’

And when you left, you branded our hearts like cow thighs.

Dear Sun,

I can’t bear to see the light of day.

Sometimes I send messages to the stars, hoping they’ll get to you,

but it’s like throwing paper planes into the sea

and watching as the water swallows them whole.

Dear Sun,

Your mother hates the way you resemble the white calluses

on her fingers after touching a no-good pan.

We should have seen this sooner,

when you slaughtered the poppies in the backyard by cooking them whole.

Dear Sun,

You are everything that is wrong with this beautiful world,

yet without you we are nothing.