Of course I’m ashamed
to be made of what made me,
to perpetuate it.
I confused this word
with perpetrate for
a long time,
a distinction I still cannot really
understand.
When the bomb hit,
the little girl rose
like a dragonfly,
struck the ceiling with everything
she was made of,
and fell with the roof
back to land.
Her eyes pummeled purple, distended
around her skull
like dragonfly eyes.
Of course I’m ashamed
to be made
of bomb,
roof,
wing.