I grew up on milkweed and frogs’ breath,
On long sunny days and
shirtless summer nights.
Running through the forests,
Leaves stroking my arms,
And thorns biting at my heels.
I aged in a field, a white dress
Childhood, the birds sang at me.
I was always missing from me.
I played with my fait as if,
Someone would cut,
cauterize and calase it over
If a single drop of the decrepit red
Wine would spill onto the prim white dress,
And she would be turned to dust.
I gripped her in my powerless hands.
Until she no longer belonged, and
I let go with both hands but held on,
To everything I knew. He sundered the
dress, the milkweed, and the forests.
He holds his stance with the thorns, the
Nights, and the field