By Becca Downs
I’ve grown strong in a universe
confident in the art of targeted cruelty
to show me a boy tugging on my hem
and asking for mommy
mistaking my dress for hers
in headlights running off scarlet-chested
when I’ve long dreamed of my own
child, a half-me ultimately destroyed by my
razor blade waking, gut-punched
empty womb, the outline of an angel
clenching fist-full of fabric
dressed as a sharp-jawed man
and pretending to love me, just
to take me naked and whole
which sometimes means wife
in our bedroom, I was a good girl
even as placid became his invitation to leave
future and family, father and
husband, titles of ownership shredded with
fallen leaves buried, now lifeless and
under dormant pillow of ghost-white snow
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).