Stela Zaharieva, Darling Heart (Artist Website, Instagram)
Photograph
I stood, slid a foot into a pale
sock, assumed I was born
for a bedroom at the end
of a hallway, a bedroom
with a mirrored closet flooded
with light. I listened, begged
not to eat flesh, buried it in my plate.
Barefoot, I unspooled the yards
as if they were mine. They gave me
jewel boxes and dolls; my brother watches
and keys. I yearned to stay out later.
I stepped into dreams like cotton
gowns, studied a swirled ceiling, recited
catalogues of prayers, commenced
the obsession: my death, the death
of my parents, my brother, every
pet caged and countered or leashed
and left on the patio slab. When the men
came I was told, Stay inside. When
the boys came, I was told, Lock
the doors. I was made to think the lamb
was me. I cut through fields and fell
in love, crossed my legs, pulled my shoulders
back, broke into a skip the whole way
home. I found myself
wedged between two hands.
I found my forced smile,
my foundation on stilts.
My father told me of trees, the oak
posing, all curves. I longed to be
the woman who named me. Staring
out the window washing dishes,
she said, Go on, get out of the house. Go on now.