you made me sixteen.
yes, to this day, sixteen and a
month and you took this wild child,
plastered stickers on
her bass amp and
gifted her a gumball machine
and the ambition for freedom.
"go on," you
whispered in my ear, "get going and
don't forget that I
am where your heart belongs."
your whisper was
your cheer was a scream. a scream
that rose to a rousing
drumbeat like my Cherokee
grandmother and ways taught me to keep in line
with mother earth's pulse; the same
pulse that fumbles
and throbs beneath your dinosaur
spine and cracked lips.
lies weren't accustomed to my
lips and neither were
yours until you made me sixteen. yes,
to this day, sixteen and a
month and you took this wild child
smeared courage on her cheekbones and
tied love around her ring finger
and her throat.