i ask the sun too much

 

each plant i’ve kept alive so far i call my friend.

each of my friends has its own quiet prayer,

it’s called how i’d like to be cared for—

 

for instance, from a distance, please & gently,

within reach, without expectation but this—

i will try to stay alive if you try to understand me.

 

one is never not hungry for all my attention—

the gift of you bending you backwards

to please me. still another’s impossible,

erratic at best & unwilling to clarify—

you’ll just have to learn to learn what i want.

 

what i want? is a room where the light finds me

easy & all that we need, we have.

 

 

i tell my kin the world is burning

 

fetch a cool glass of water. this side of western ruin

we know as much about fire as we do about forever.

we have four words for the fear of everything,

start praying. begin with god / end with specifics.

ask—for your ancestor, the skill to keep all winter

a single flame alive. ask for revelation, for wanting

no weapon. to be closer, now, to you.

 

Kristin Lueke

Kristin Lueke is a Chicana poet and author of the chapbook (in)different math (Dancing Girl Press). Her work has appeared in Sixth Finch, Wildness, Frozen Sea, Maudlin House, HAD, and elsewhere. A Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, she was a finalist for the 2024 Porter House Review Poetry Prize and received the Morris W. Kroll Poetry Prize from Princeton University, where she earned an AB in English. She also holds an MA from the University of Chicago. Kristin lives in northern New Mexico and writes at www.theanimaleats.com.