A Poem by Gita Ralleigh

Our Father, the Sun

When we were small and our bare feet vibrated to his roar,
father told us his was a lion’s heart: maned and carnivore.

On family outings, our car strained to fly, the wheels squealed
death notes. We cried in terror. Father told us not to scream,

told us he would never die, for only a warrior could spear
a lion’s heart. No warriors remained in this age, he feared.

We were trained to raise the dead. Honeyfed, twin horsemen
who drove our father the Sun, his heart’s chariot speeding on

to race the days, tethered by bulls, mustangs, falcons. Where
he arced, comets splintered black skies, fiery ashes starred air.

Twin healers, we sawed his chest wide, felt ribs splinter, break.
Split his chalk-veined heart open, a fossil laid upon blue drapes.

Gita Ralleigh is a poet, writer, and NHS doctor born in London. She has been published by Wasafiri, Bellevue Literary Review, Magma Poetry, Under The Radar, and The Rialto, among others. Her debut poetry collection, A Terrible Thing, was published by Bad Betty Press in 2020 and her pamphlet, Siren, is out now from Broken Sleep Books. She is a member of the Kinara poetry collective.