content warning for subtle references to child sexual assault

Girl coming into her own

                                    Not that kind of running. I’m moving toward
                                    two small girls: the quiet one is light—

                                    her long hair, her yellow dress. The other one
                                    cuts her down with a flat palm, & always

                                    remembers his hands here & now & all over
                                    her like a rash, so I am rash, shadow,

                                    a second hand meeting the hour.
                                    There are many ways to trap.

                                    Better to unmuscle & move through
                                    a field of wildflowers you cannot name.

                                    *

Look at my blue dress. 
I’m summer heat. Knives shine
for forgotten things—
the other one, she’s scared
of knives, how they scream
their throats raw. Stupid girl. I love
them: a jungle of birds
in my hand, chattering
to each other. Talking
pinwheel. Don’t touch her again—
I told you she was afraid—
Watch me dancing
I’m the blade that turns
I’m the edge that cuts.

            Stars of scissors cough from all sides, their teeth caught in drywall, loose arms
            swinging: not a wave, not a measurement, the step between steps. She’s here
            shiny eyes flaring, gums almost showing. I like being around her then. Reminds me
            I’m here.

I steal and pinch
and tattle. I push the pretty ones
into the wood chips. My bruises
badge and shimmer. When thunder
shakes my bedroom windows
I bite my lips till they bleed.

            Sometimes she is strong with me to protect. My body is a bruised plum in her
            basket. The world storms around me—turning, sparking, flashes of blue, a wedge
            of silver, then more blue and more—me cornered and watching: unblinking eye,
            my mouth messaging.
                                                                                                           
You want to say rose?
No soft and sweet.
Red clamoring mad at all
that sky and surfacing.

            Since no one sees me I hum everywhere. It feels good to have my mouth full of
            predictable song. The world around me cannot harm or alter, it cannot refrain from
            listening, retreating slack jawed, astounded at the music my throat gargles. When
            she turns toward the melody I am always caught off guard. This bit of beauty is
            what gets noticed. It has nothing to do with me.

                                    *

                        I only did what I was
                        told, as girls do too often. Finally
                        the panic of moving—an awful new.
                        Both hands reaching: how to see a smile
                        in place of a sneer? how to see an embrace?

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