The day the sun vanished

Nikita Bhardwaj '21

my sisters and I spin

dreams of willowy gold as ruby

rain raps on our windows and doors.

outside, streams of dust glint

where sparkling tides once crashed.

my eldest sister’s trembling hands clasp mine.

together, we mourn silver rivers

of vapor, mourn the constellations that

stretched across purple mountains,

mourn the flickering winds of sticky summers past.

my legs are numb,

huddled against these wooden floorboards, as

the sky whistles a baleful warning.

I squeeze my eyes shut, listen intently to the

final breaths of a jaded planet,

hoping I’ll snag the secret to saving the world

on a stray breeze.

our ancestors told us: pray

to the stars that the violet dust never

settles, pray that this rotted

apricot never bares its foul

insides to the universe.

but they bled the planet dry.

peeled away its flesh,

plucked its jewels to adorn their foreheads,

let its emerald glaciers drain

down their fingers and thighs.

so as crackling comet storms tear

at our cloud belt, my sisters and I rummage

through centuries of bellicose madness, and

curse the fools who sowed

poison into sinless soil.