her day in the sun she is warm, and malleable as golden wax in the sun, molding herself to what she rests upon. tonight, when stars cool her, she will cling to the form she overspread this day, when gravity drew her; she will be low, and firm, and her kept-secret, candle-amber glimmer will surprise the moon. but look - see her now as she takes the sun and flows - not fast, like water, and not transparently - she hides what she rests upon. not even the sun will know what she knows, on this day, her day in the sun.
John Wiley started as a ballet dancer and turned to poetry when his knees gave out for good. His work has appeared in Terror House Magazine, Outsider Poetry and The Writing Disorder among other journals. (And if you’re reading this he has also appeared in Grand Little Things twice.) He lives in California and works in his wife’s audiology practice.