I split with what I thought he was. Black crow, black stone,

piloting the dark earth’s curve. Grey shape in blue water—

the tender shark at our ankles. Everything he did heroic.

Being good for nothing except everything as natural

as sunrise, when being daughter was miracle, proof enough

of love. Waking up at dawn to lie next to him reading

the newspaper, stars in a circle behind my burning eyes.

The quiet of the morning before the parrots began to shriek

in the Royal Poincianas. The safety of my father’s body

before I became something strange, with a woman’s teeth.

A woman’s legs. How the sun crowned pink and crawled up

the glass walls. His newspaper rustled as the pages turned

and folded back—headlines, local, sports. How I was the slow light

blooming the room gold. How his papery hands petaled the dark.

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