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 picked it out himself. Now my grown up eyes dissolve at his etched face in the photograph 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 sank among the gravel and worship the boulders that harbor her.
A lone chrysalis twisting in the wind, my fluid bones press hard against the casing. Swollen wings beat at the space that holds me. I know that I am meant to struggle. These unheralded breasts, they defeat and yet complete me . I can’t see or hear nor would I heed signs of warning. A pubescent butterfly, excessively sanguine or melancholy flitting from flower to flower, oblivious to life’s repressive hand hovering above me.
il Mondo de Franco