let out the butterfly

vii.

oh dear girl,

body butter, white linen,
the tender frills of a youthful flower,
bare feet, hair pulled back
by ribbons of sunbeams;
held up by such demulcent hands.

I wouldn't believe it,
even if I envisioned it myself:
my body worthy of fondness—
mine and his,
mine and theirs.

my body worthy of devotion,
constructed for effusiveness
of closeness, homeliness,
of joviality of such grandeur
that all mouths fall agape.

oh dear girl,
fragrant of may,
where have you found
these notions, this music
of an impromptu riant summer,

approaching, surging
over your nakedness,
over the stain
of your consciousness,
I ask myself.

who has build this bridge
you're walking upon
in your loose light trousers?
where are your dresses,
your butterflies, your hummingbirds?

forgotten, I answer.
I close my palm
over my glowing cheek.
you are forgetting, I tell myself.
you are learning.

God has sunk a kiss
of dewy freshness upon
the crown of your head;
you are learning
about a life so contrasting to yours.

let it be left behind.
may the dresses you wear
be the dresses of celebration
for your elegant comeliness,
for your growing heart.

may the birds you hear
be the creatures untouched,
unkept by the hands of the one
who had slashed your chest
and tore your intellect.

remember that each lash
your Savior had endured
makes up
for all the porcelain shards
within you;

for all the lessons
that broke you,
for the lack of love
from those closest to you,
for all unheard pain and unfairness.

butterflies will be
a thing of beauty,
not an instrument of fear,
not your past chasing you,
not your misery resurfacing.

so butter your body sweetly.
wash your hair,
spray your musk and vanilla
upon your neck so tender.
walk barefooted.

let yourself be loved
and think not.
God will make not a doll out of you
but a human being,
a woman.

serene,
motherly,
sharp.
a loving person,
unhurt.