iced mint tea?” A request so
a cattle fence brushes against my arm and
chest and forehead.
rearrange to fit
wielder of my shame
abstractions of Patrick-focused judgement
even though nobody gives a damn about
tool of self-humiliation—in this case, the cup in my hand overfilled
with iced tea splashing onto the oor.
I set down my bag
and hurry to grab a napkin.
How bizarre I must look, fluttering around the
a nervous butterfly.
I wish I had brown-grey wings to camou age myself with the ground. No, no. Again.
If I must be a
butterfly and no longer a
let me be a