Did she draw the sun as a child?
In Sunday school,
With spikes
A massive sunny core

There was God,
Simple with neat borders
Didn’t want to color outside those lines
Yours was better than your friends’

Did she draw the sun at twelve?
In art class,
Fingers long,
Snakes from a smaller yellow center

There is her reaching,
Color without edges
Blending orange and red to show
A single fire slow burning into identity

Did she draw the sun at seventeen?
On the horizon,
Did light even show?
If so the flame bled all consuming

Center unbound,
Indistinguishable from
All her light touches
Swamped with washed out answers

Does she draw the sun now?
In favor of being
With spiraled surface and
Savior touched soul? No instead:

There is god,
Unabated by expression’s limits
Lines unstrapped wild loose
Unshakeable Protestant saturation

The center sits on the pew Sunday morning
The rays kick dust in the evenings
All things ever so bright:
She doesn’t have to draw the sun anymore.