Butterfly in Reverse (a poem from my upcoming book, Memory Chose A Woman’s Body) I had wings. Once. They seemed no different than human hands until plucked. Reluctantly. Along the mantelpiece, beside a twenty dollar bill— the world, smut-stained; neither touchable, neither of them mine. Gone. Butterfly in reverse, ill pupa, inch worm at half an inch. Until I forgave. Wings aren’t required to fly. On a weekend afternoon, around age 9, my mother stated that she was not feeling well and decided to take a nap in her bedroom. He sat in the room with me, seemingly more attentive that day than others. My family had only known him a short while, yet he treated me like a friend that he’d known for years. My brother sat directly in front of the television, I sat on the floor with my knees raised slightly and my back to the couch. He leaned forward to play with my hair, and rubbed my shoulders and back. The back rub moved to my front, and that became the day that whoever I was supposed to become died a sudden death. In an instant I could feel the light of life drain out […]
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