This poem is not an autobiography
by Kristina England

If it was, I would tell you how my nose slants to the left
from the time I fell into a marble table while jumping on
my grandmother’s couch. How I wasn’t old enough to feel.
I would write that I lost my tongue at the age of seven
to the first boy who caught my heart. That a heart grows
wings in order to flutter out of the cold clasp of hands
(a dove can only thrash for so long). I would warn you
that a boy does not let go of what he owns. Instead,
he springs into a thousand men, hands interlocked,
stretching into a monotonous rope around the bird.
How she thinks of light when the darkness comes.

Kristina England resides in Worcester, Massachusetts. She is an active member of the poetry community serving on the Board of Directors for the Worcester County Poetry Association and an assistant editor for Ballard Street Poetry Journal. She also runs a local poetry workshop. Her poetry is published or forthcoming in Gargoyle, Haggard and Halloo, Nib Review, and other journals. For more on her poetry, visit kristinaengland.blogspot.com.

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