In the hard sun I grew
tired of my burden, my
childhood preserved
in fear, wrapped
in decades of tangled muslin.
Springtime in Greece
and there were oranges
so sweet, so easy
to divide. I was ready
to taste the very sun in them.
One day I grew tired
of my pride, my strong steps
through the marketplace, hair
like a beacon of difference
from the unrelenting sun.
And I was easy
to divide, from the past,
from the future -- the hard
sun giving in to the soft
breath of evening.