Amaterasu's gloves

My hands are adorned 
by gloves constructed 
from the warmth of life itself.  

The California Sun 
of asphalt mirages 
beating down and 
bronzing skin and 
sucking the earth dry. 

The rage 
of generations
of injustice 
changing the heart 
into a seed 
that is slowly cracking. 
Letting rage 
spew out 
like lava. 

The racing 
from the crystal snow
to the piping hot 
brown cocoa
splashing slowly down the throat 
and brightening up the soul. 

The almighty, 
Satan scorching, 
fires from hell. 
Turning bodies 
into wax museums 
of dripping, faceless figures. 

The red cheeked, 
shy smile, 
averted eyes blush. 
From the next door neighbor 
peeking out their door. 

My gloves are woven from the threads of the world

hours of happiness 
and snapshots of suffering. 

baking my blood 
and thawing my bones.