You are at the highest point
Does that mean if I jump off I will
Soar?
My past-down, thick arm hair transforms
Into feathers of wings and the air would catch me
on
the
way
Down
I see abundantly clear up here
I can see my stubborn
mother’s flaws turn into small specks
In the art she creates on this earth
Ones she paints of her walking down the brick streets
Of Michoacán
I can see the maze that I once believed my life
Was constructed in
Has only one vivid path
One that I have left
Countless times
To explore dead ends
I see the marks that my past lover made
Are so effortlessly light now
Blending into those previously stretched
along my chest, my hips and in between my thighs
Not a fraction of
Skin
I am growing into
Is damaged
Not a mountain has been moved
On my path
I am soaring so that I feel I am meant
to stay in the sky
To stay an audience member
To the terrible beauty that has been my life
The strange beauty
of generational trauma
passed from my abuela
in to the lives of my mother,
my brothers and sister
my niece,
my unborn nephew.
How will I come
Back
Down?
It’s translucent up above.