The words were my baby butterflies,
The blue jays of the spring blooming in my mind like a sonata
They fluttered across the page, landed in pairs and quintets
Chirruped and sang my own song.
Your red pen like a machine gun pierced the margins
Filled every free space with blood-red ink
Poked holes like battle wounds in the paper you were so eager to pick apart
The way a hyena scrapes the last piece of meat off a dead beautiful creature.
You handed back to me
A garden of bent wings
A sea of blots and splatters
And I straightened it out a little, placed it on the windowsill
And watched it fly away
Over the dirty streets
I hope it lands on a cloud
To rain red pen marks on this city of pride.