I walked along the edge of the clouds
when I heard my mother’s words,
"We don't need another mouth to feed."
She pushed me and I tumbled through the sky.
I reached for the cypress tree, hanging
on to the scent of my father's aftershave.
"You are no longer welcomed here," he mumbled.
He shook the branches and I continued my descent.
I clung to the church's steeple and dangled
from the cross "I don't recognize you,"
the pastor hissed. He pulled back his hand
and let me resume my downward plunge.
My long hair flew in every direction
exposing my shoulders and my breasts.
"Beware of vanity, my child," Mother Superior
whispered then she kissed me on the cheek.
I grabbed for the rooftop of my grandma's house
the shingles, too damaged to get a solid grip,
"Take the cushion," my auntie cooed,
"It might soften the impact."
This poem was based on a memory
from an adolescent dream before
I turned eighteen.
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