Baby feet kick her ribs but she still has all of them not like Adam. Her organs busy knitting baby limbs, rows of stitches can’t drop a stitch they must be perfect. Back when she was a little girl her mother folded her wings bought her hoodies sewed into them extraordinary inner wing-shaped pockets tucked them neatly. As a woman-girl in a dirty bathroom she begged him to make her like everyone else, cut off my wings cut them off cut them off. She took a picture to jail them in a frame: bloody wings on grimy tile. Babygirl’s wings flutter-swim inside and grow lacy.
(Originally published in PANK)