She slid the match across the coarse surface.
With one swift gesture, she hoped to heal
the open wounds from inside out.
She’s determined to burn the vines
connecting her to a mountain of shame. A mountain belongs
not to her.
She was born, not a he.
What a shame!
She diligently threw the lies into the fire,
hoping none would root. I don’t remember
how she survived. I say a silent prayer.
One evening she went to sleep.
The next morning, she woke up as a mountain bluebird.
The blue fire became her wings.
The burnt ash became feathers on her chest.
The sky opened. She started to sing
in a new tongue that delights.
Decades passed. Friends left and love died. The mountain of shame persisted. The alien world she inhabited is looking familiar and feeling afar. She is burnt out from the same fight dressed up in fancier and whiter outfits until –
She saw a little girl, sitting by a tree, reading. Mom, dad and the little girl, leaned against a strong tree, reading.
She rested on top of the tree, moved by this mundane sight.
She sang
for the little girls who are able to root deeply,
for the little girls who wish to fly.
She is born.
What a gift!
