top of page

Mother, the sun is trying to shine on me by Mary Ford Neal

Mother, the sun is trying to shine on me

again, as you said it would.

I’ve kept the windows shuttered as you told me to, but

hot fingers always find ways through.

The sun is saying it might turn me golden if I step outside.

But ‘might’ was never good enough for you

and won’t be good enough for me

and I’m remembering everything you’ve said

about how ballerina skin like mine

is slipper-soft, and cannot be exposed.

I think the sun might be a liar, Mother.

You tell me that I mustn’t melt –

that I’m a fool to think I could be golden.

I move the slats a little,

see some slow, sun-softened people

and I cannot help but notice that not one of them is burnt.

What should I do? Tell me again,

and quickly, Mother. My hand is on the handle

and it’s nearly noon, when shade is hard to find.

Mary Ford Neal is a writer and academic from the West of Scotland. Her current poetry deals with philosophical and psychological themes, focusing on (dis)connection, belonging, certainty and doubt. Her poems have been published in various print and online journals, and she was Pushcart nominated in 2020. Mary has authored two poetry collections: ‘Dawning’ (Indigo Dreams, 2021) and ‘Relativism’ (Taproot Press, forthcoming 2022). She is an assistant editor of Nine Pens Press and 192 Magazine.


bottom of page