Poem of the Week

Cutting the Sun

By Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

After Francesco Clemente’s Indian Miniature #16

The sun-face looms over me, gigantic-hot, smelling

of iron. Its rays striated,

rasp-red and muscled as the tongues

of iguanas. They are trying to lick away

my name. But I

am not afraid. I hold in my hands

(where did I get them)

enormous blue scissors that are

just the color of sky. I bring

the blades together, like

a song. The rays fall around me

curling a bit, like dried carrot peel. A far sound

in the air—fire

or rain? And when I’ve cut

all the way to the center of the sun

I see

flowers, flowers, flowers.