Disowned Light | Miranda Sun

It is night and the knife forgets itself
on the table again. The moon

worries outside the window as the blade stays,
placed among sloughed garlic skin and trails

of marinara, green guts of bell peppers. Sister
to a knife, but the moon cuts

water and ships and when she feels like it,
the sky. The knife cuts the red

from apples and unrunning lambs and once,
my father’s thumb. Compare to the silverware

dreaming in the sink, the apron still starred
with flour folded over a seat. All caught in not

their own light, but another’s.

Miranda Sun is nineteen years old. An alumna of the NYS Summer Young Writers Institute and the Kenyon Review Young Writers Workshop, her work has been nationally recognized by the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards and the Writers Alliance of Gainesville, as well as published in TRACK//FOUR, The Claremont Review, Sobotka, Body Without Organs, YARN, and more.