Some days, I wish I could moonwalk into my mother’s belly,
back-swim into my father’s crotch,
become a thought not alive, still dead,
tell God to send a female me instead.
Today, I caught myself become a sigh under my father’s breath,
yesterday, I was a prayer on my mother’s lips,
counting the rosary beads on her fingertips
because every one of my flaws placed her at war with my father,
Like when I forgot to collect the sky’s tears when it wept,
and when I forgot the broomstick lying where I swept,
or when I couldn’t crush the rat that rushed between my legs
and father cried, why am I acting like a woman for God’s sake?
or when I was caught walking with Winifred,
fingers embracing, a taboo I booed unafraid.
I returned home to a battlefield,
where anger has placed my home on a siege,
and this I could tell from my father’s eyes, setting me aflame,
and my mother’s silence, burying my remains.
I paid a visit to the backyard,
where I could be a shard of maybes,
maybe they would have loved a daughter better,
maybe I could have been a better daughter.
