Once I broke a butterfly.
She flew into my bedroom,
fancied herself safe amidst dolls and books and a colony of
little mice fashioned from seashells and pipe cleaners.
I watched her as she frolicked, floating with wings
outstretched until she fell upon my open palm,
fragile as a flame.
I shredded her golden wings like wet paper.
My father breathed into my ear as he
placed his sweaty hands on mine,
guiding my fingers.
“So beautiful,” he murmured,