Haze of Gold

“In the 1960’s, the Italians called


the rising sun, a Haze of Gold.


They would climb upon their roof and talk about 
how the sun died every night,


only to be resurrected in the morning


just so they could see a glimpse of new life. 

you see, Sarah, I knew the boys we dated 
were bad ideas. I knew it from the very beginning,


and I think you did, too. 

We died 
every night to ourselves only to be rebirthed


out of their hearts, 

out of their failing kidneys, and out of their
weary bones - to become who they wanted us to be.


we died every night, dreaming of the horrors of what 
goodbye would mean for us, of what being alone would feel like,
but, 

come morning, we were alive again.


We were kissing with mouths open and 
painting Mona Lisa on the underside of their thighs. 


Come morning, they were playing symphonies on our 
ribs, as if our beauty was something they had to bring


out of us. 

Come morning, they were attaching strings


to our veins and arteries so they could control the way


we danced when we saw them. 

They wanted us to be fluid and containable objects they could love but place on their shelves when 
they were done with us.

Sarah, I am not saying we were fools, but we were 
very foolish for loving boys who only knew how to love us with 
their tongues. 

But we are not broken.


We stopped dying for them a long time ago
 and only allowed ourselves to be baptized in the 
beauty of every goodbye we never wanted,


but perpetually craved. 

The Haze of Gold has long since died out
and the dreams of new life and gazing of the setting sun
 has long since been forgotten,
 but NASA still sees a grey veil above 
the Po River Valley of Italy and sometimes, 
I think, we still want to be loved in
 all the wrong ways.”

Amanda Helm, Haze of Gold