Following the light, their golden
faces are, by sundown, heavy
and low with cares. Still, I can’t tear

myself away, not now. You’d say
do it, run from this bright hot porch,
this lovely field of sunflowers

mocking you with their likeness,
with their sacrifice. Mornings
they are young and fresh, their tiny

florets dripping dew while threaded
roots finger delta soil, seeking
copper and zinc, drawing them

up and into leaves and stalks.
They hold it all—mouths cupping
poisons unseen by the casual

observer. In Fukushima, scientists
planted fields of them, delighting
villagers until others came and cut

them down, toted away polluted
carcasses. You’d say I can’t be
someone else’s medicine.

Watch me.