The Girl among the Geese

Once, communion wine

tried to drown them,

the winged things.

So I let nothing in, nothing out.

Butterflies in my stomach

crawled up my throat,

crumpled bodies in my closed mouth.

Yellow wings between my teeth.

Then one morning she put them back together,

a pasted kite of insect parts.

And she flew it.

Once, my hometown church

baptized me then spit me out

after holding me under their tongues

for twenty years. One Sunday,

the pastor asked the congregation

which bodies do not belong.

A voting pebble was placed in each palm,

to be dropped into one of two urns,

as if to say, It is the weight

behind this veiled hatred

that measures the nature of sin.

Each small plunk of each pebble of judgment:

a more civilized form of stoning.

Once, in a meadow I stood,

a girl among the geese,

body tired of being

so full of apology.

I tore my self into several pieces

and fed it to the geese like

breadcrumbs.

Take, eat.

This is my body, broken for you.

Do this in remembrance of me.

Now, I thought, maybe I’ll know

what it feels like to fly.