
Things I’m made of
My name rhymes with blood.
My name rhymes with blood.
A house full of mosquitoes,
I kill everything I find with
wings and tiny and not beautiful like butterflies.
My mother’s pet name is beautiful,
I named her butterfly because
I’m beautiful and everyone needs me
to make them beautiful as well.
To be a butterfly is to be prone to fear,
to be sky in your wing, to fly simultaneously,
the way your body is wind floating.
My mother doesn’t have a daughter,
so I’m daughtered. She loves touching
my skin or putting her head in my lap
and pretending to fall asleep.
At dinner, none of my brothers
touches the fruit; I’m reserved to eat
everything, to be daughtered.
My eldest brother’s grin is soft as
white silk. When he opens his mouth,
the sky jumps in for shelter; his words are heaven.