日食 [Eclipse]

by Phương Anh

Sun is an evanescent being, hiding

behind distance, making themself small.

Yet, with their boisterous voice, clamped down

on narration, announcing a ruling decree over Time.

An absolute monarch.

Their shadow dictates customs and nature’s clock,

Their eyes blow things into existence.

Sometimes, their light-hand loves Earth too much,

Caressing: burn and scorch their child’s skin.

So lonely, they are too.

Their nine siblings–shot down

Yet, only Moon ever gets sympathy

In most stories.

And countless times, agony soaks into their light

And their amber dies into the night.

And Earth is left alone.

Sun, too embarrassed to show their tears

Like parents holding back their fears,

For their child to know only love

Not to see their parents being eaten above.

Indeed, no one ever sees Sun’s pearl of grief.

Every year when the days and nights are tied

When they could know tears are about to be shed

Swiftly they come with forks and knives

To dig into a feast worthy of gods.

Phương Anh is a translator, writer and an editor at BIPOC-run magazine GENCONTROLZ. Their words have found home in a few magazines including Asymptote and PR&TA. Currently, they are a cultural studies student at UCL, with an interest in translation, ecocriticism and psychogeography.