Burnt by a Sun God by Jane Rosenberg LaForge There are many suns, but fewer gods: Apollo and his offspring, in magnetic disturbances that bring out the Northern Lights and the man who told me how unimportant I was at a friend’s wedding. In those days, Apollo’s children spun off his palms clockwise and counter, as if arranged for birth from the disc that bears seeds and feed for us mortals with our mere appetites and pitches to stand beside the indomitable just to be tinged by their lies and fire. I am a fish out of water, one of them said, as much a fish as a bird forced down from the sky as hills are consumed and branches are deprived of their layers and architecture. At the intersection overwhelmed with clinging bits of houses and sidewalks in the storm water, one led me on a slow reveal in my rear view mirror as if it was one of those mornings when I was naive about suntans and the baby on the Coppertone bottle. Look at me, he seemed to be saying, as he removed the helmet he wore on his motorcycle. But I had moved on to another god or perhaps just another demi-drama and I was element, no longer apostle, having been charred, and made hollow. Gyroscope Review 3 !