Nov 222015

by Tracy Blanchard


After nine months of


Of cohabiting without

That other pleasure,

Of me:

A runaway

Too young to have you

And you:

A foreigner from the desert

Who rode a motorcycle

And fucked all summer

Women so beautiful

They were butterflies

While I suffered from childhood

And waited for my wings.


By Valentine’s Day I still hadn’t grown them

So stood topless at the kitchen sink

In old pointe shoes

Running hot water over my newly cut hair

And waiting for you to

Come up behind me and

With rough hands,

Rip open each swollen unborn wing.

But you just whirl right past me

With the most beautiful one yet

And you kiss and kiss and kiss her

While my heart, like a bird blind against a window,

Breaks itself.


The next day,

I am packing up to finally leave

And baby,

You come in from fixing an old white Mercedes

And by some indecent miracle

Blacken my shoulders and breasts with

Greased up hands

And as you move into me                                                      

I burst into a pair of red red wings

And fly out the front door

You left open.