Before I left home I had just cut my hair too short and my neck was all too ******.
I ran past towns with a body that looked like the ghost of a willow tree, clawed at it the way mothers claw at fathers during the births of their daughters.
Pictures of Father holding me up to a willow tree each time I cried. Nobody else could hold me
up the way he could, his arms gold with too many storms. Pictures of a boy who has been covered in too many storms. Too many pictures of a boy pasted to my face. After I left
I had dreams of my face covered in scrapes that were deep with small soldiers and miniature colonial women; I didn’t know any of them, but they all knew me. They kissed me the way tangled up Christmas lights kiss arms in the winter. When they did their mouths felt like the teeth of wolves.
I have stopped being the girl in the white dress, with the pain in my stomach, the marks across my arm.
But there are still bruises topping my face, from a boy heavy and dripping with his mother’s old gowns.
My legs in these hot and dusty new towns are sore and happy.