By Becca Downs
I’ve grown strong in a universe dressed as a sharp-jawed man
confident in the art of targeted cruelty and pretending to love me, just
to show me a boy tugging on my hem to take me naked and whole
and asking for mommy which sometimes means wife
mistaking my dress for hers in our bedroom, I was a good girl
in headlights running off scarlet-chested even as placid became his invitation to leave
when I’ve long dreamed of my own future and family, father and
child, a half-me ultimately destroyed by my husband, titles of ownership shredded with
razor blade waking, gut-punched fallen leaves buried, now lifeless and
empty womb, the outline of an angel under dormant pillow of ghost-white snow
clenching fist-full of fabric until a new dress blossoms in spring
Becca Downs (she/they) is a writer, editor, and educator based in Denver, Colorado. She graduated from the Mile-High MFA program at Regis University and is the author of Acid Rain Epithalamium (Beyond the Veil Press, 2024).