8.01 / January 2013

Cut Like Me

listen to this poem

Baby feet kick her ribs but she still had all of them not like Adam. Her organs busy knitting baby limbs, rows of stitches can’t drop a stitch they must be perfect. Back when she was a little girl her mother folded her wings bought her hoodies sewed into them extraordinary inner wing-shaped pockets, tucked them neatly. As a woman-girl in a dirty bathroom she begged him to make her like everyone else, cut off my wings, cut them off, cut them off. She took a picture to jail them in a frame: bloody wings on grimy tile. Babygirl’s wings flutter-swim inside and grow lacy.


Amanda Hart Miller is presently pursuing a Master of Arts in Writing at Johns Hopkins University, and she teaches composition, literature, and creative writing at Hagerstown Community College in Maryland.
8.01 / January 2013

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