ale-haru11

Grandpa used to tell stories about the night I was born, said a lost sparrow with cockeyed feathers hopped across my right shoulder and left its mark. Shifting the sheaf of hair mom refused to cut short and craning my neck, I could just see the cluster of sharp-edged W's etched like tattoos across the scalloped scoop of my bones. In summer heat waves, I learned to weave my dark tangles into braids and let the claw strokes breathe, the thin straps of feather-print shirts pushed out of the way. On those days, Grandpa claimed I could lift my arms, wing-like, and fly myself into something new. Today, though the sun is high and summer nears