Here’s another life story,
another reason to lie.
When I turned twelve
my father had me
lace my hands under
my head, on my back
beneath the mulberry tree,
& dropped branches lit
from a matchless canopy.
There was no catechism,
no warning, just fire
in the abrupt sky.
Wings flared, scoring
a vista reduced to
flash, fluted bone,
residue & shame.