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Poetry

Too Close to the Sun

Victor McConnell
issue four

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Too close to the sun—

is there such a thing?

Imagine how warm you’d be.

Close your eyes now,

smell the fire,

ignore the searing of your own flesh,

and bask in the warmth, the warmth.

Look down, see the Earth below.

Blue green, wisps of cloud cradling it.

Then look ahead, feel your retinas sizzle,

an act of interstellar arson, self-immolation, 

a kneeling monk aflame on black asphalt.

Blind now, but you can still feel 

the cigarette, feel its red energy at your lips,

even as the skin drips off your fingers,

and you suck in that smoke,

the last mammal beside a volcano,

inhaling while waiting to be swallowed by lava.

The Earth, hotter than ever, though

still looking cool from up here,

if you could still see,

but you’re too high anyway to 

make out the burning—

burning forests and fields,

burning trash and bodies.

You suck harder on the cigarette.

The tobacco is still sweet.

Your tastebuds haven’t yet been seared away,

and you cross your legs,

now mostly bones,

cross them like a child seated at play,

floating in the black inkwell of space,

waiting to be eaten by the sun.