little bleeding phoenix

an ounce of chili powder. two cups of ash. a

pinch of salt. tree sap and vinegar for binding.

sugar for distress.

my mother comes into the kitchen and screams at the sight of me. she

screams because she cannot contain her astonishment, i tell myself. i am

nude Phoenix lathering myself in slick diesel––my rebirth–– and she cannot

take it away from me. she approaches and hesitantly touches my arm like i

am a mythical being. or a republican. what have you done? the

accusation bleeds into the ceramic tiles beneath us.

i give her the skin off my body in answer. it rips like wet paper in the Divide between us. she

mourns it, her gift to me at birth, her smooth, spotted hands trembling. what have you done?

she repeats, quieter. i am getting tired of her black horror. it does not become her. claiming, i

say, and spread another small red handful of my concoction lovingly across my forearm, letting

bare nerve and muscle take it in. this is my ceremony, my tribute to Womanhood. please

remember you love me.

she says nothing and i am led to believe this is it. she will disown me as i have disowned myself.

my shredded skin ripples as a soft breeze lilts through the kitchen. my father shudders with

disgust at work thirty miles away, his spinning chair moaning under his weight. i thank his

commute. i do not think he can handle me just yet. my mother will call him within the next

minute and they will agree to send me away. i am already away.

despite Phoenix growling at my back, at the space between my shoulder blades, i do not have

flight. my legs serve me instead. the gray neighborhood is appalled as i run down the center of

the avenue; a man holding a hose over his frozen gardenias drops his shock and it rolls to my

feet. i kick it aside. his wife lashes curses after me as i sprint in the morning frost, heels

spitting black ice. the chili powder is a warming agent i’m grateful for.

swiftly, a fraying soccer ball reels towards my head,

its black and white a menacing threat i know i can’t escape from.

the neighbor’s son has good aim. i almost congratulate him for it.

my mouth draws open, vinegar dripping to line my lips like

saints’ tears. my Womanhood has been sanctioned. the tears sing

their praise. and then––dreamlike––i hit the rancid dark.