She knows it as a child. Her fate not bright,
no school bus yellow sun. Its freckled freight
a frolic, friends descend to skips and kites.
Peanut and jam pretend to blend but hate.
She knows it in a dream. A moon a man,
in slumber, seems. His beams become a hand
that parts a curtain, cheery chintz. Backhands
a cheek that wakes to wince then understands.
She knows it in a bed, the hair that pulls a head.
The fingers, darkness, dread. She scream, atones
inside though not a word is said. Misled
through paths of pain that end always alone.
She knows it all and learned it much too soon.
What’s made of sun can never love a moon.