Last Week The Sun Died

Joanna Theiss

And Jenny can’t stop talking about it.

She tells me Lake Baikal

has frozen in July, and

uncountable hectares of soybeans have withered,

and the doomsday clock is set to twenty days.

While Jenny scrolls,

eyes bloodshot with grief,

I light a candle that smells like gardenias.

I press egg salad onto white bread,

I pour iced tea into our favorite glasses.

Jenny picks at the food. She lists

what she misses about the sun:

Gold and pink mornings, and

baseball games on television, and

the way light clings to sprinkler water.

When Jenny says she can’t eat anymore,

I save the

remainder

of her sandwich for later.

I stack our plates in the dishwasher

and brew a pot

but hot coffee reminds Jenny of the sun, so

I leave her to her headlines.

I take my cup to the bedroom to think

of what I miss.

Not about the sun, but about

Jenny before the sun died.

How she switched off the lamp

and put Graceland on the stereo,

the songs somehow lasting longer without the light.

How she kicked off the blankets

and found me in the dark.

How she took my hand in hers.

How she squeezed as if to say

Our bodies beside one another’s

provide all the warmth I need.