It was my birthday. She did not come to the table. I brought cake to her on a paper plate. Accustomed to the dark, heavy tapestry hung at her window. I didn’t sit with her anymore, her suffering frightened me. Today I wore a new dress, I adored it’s lacy bodice and satin sash. He had picked it out himself. Later my grown up eyes dissolved in the pain on his etched face. A photo with an empty space dying in a dark room
That woman who spit me red faced into the world, fed and failed me, flung me from the hem of her skirt into the fractured world stares back at me from my mirror. I wear her hands like gloves and honor the rolling river where her ashes sunk among the gravel, worship the giant boulders that harbor her.
I am a lone chrysalis twisting in the wind, fluid bones press hard against its fragile casing. Swollen wings beat at the tight space that holds me. I am searching for a moral. These unheralded breasts, they defeat and yet complete me too. I know I am meant to struggle. I can’t see or hear nor would I heed signs of warning, a pubescent butterfly, excessively sanguine or melancholy I flit from flower to flower, oblivious to life’s repressive hand hovering above me.
il mondo de franco