The First Sun Thief

To die or to be killed. What’s the difference, if any at all?

Tonight as you stirred in your blue striped pajamas,

as mum and everyone else in the world slept,

the red robin outside my window wept for her baby.

The hot demands of the morning now in my hands—

for once I understood a cry I could not return.

I stole something I do not know how to return.

I could not bear to see it kill you, my little brother and all.

Do not awaken now, the police come to arrest my hands.

Dream of flight and never do dare land in your pajamas,

let its good warmth replace my love for you, my baby.

Blackened by a place where water has never slept,

my premeditated hands burned, and still you slept.

If to the selfish springs of Eden I do not return,

wash the soil clean until you see green, for you, my baby,

will succumb to a rottened planet, alabaster skin and gall.

Boil every walnut tree in your own blood—strip your pajamas

if you must—and stain their black hulls on your hands.

When you follow the great leopards to Africa, I am hand

in hand with you. Since I have left I have not slept,

so do not be afraid now. Put on your sweet striped pajamas,

run fast to catch the leopards, the mother will return

once she understands you to be a friend to all,

your black fingers hold the spots you paint on her baby.

I wanted you in a world you can grow up in, my baby,

so with my long lithe arms and loving hands,

I stole the big yellow sun, radiation and all,

and left. But I kissed your forehead as you still slept,

and I promised you, my sweet little brother, my return.

But only once it is safe for you, and your blue striped pajamas.