We come from the sun

We come from the Sun,
they say to me,
from the wrong side of my ear.
But why?
Why for?
I mumble in cotton.
For answer,
they show their hands,
oven-mittened.
See. See our thumbs.
They are wide.
Splayed and strong.
We will gentle you,
raise you from the gorge.

Life is but a dream.

***

Art by Michael Richardson