The day I learned to walk
He held out his palms
for me, waiting;
my tiny insect
fingers squirmed
inside a hot jar of honey
and pulled
at the saccharine.
He picked me up, dangled me by
my feet, shook all the sweetness
out of me. Knocked on hollow
baby bone with his knuckles.
Carved me open with the claws
of God’s First Man starved of
fruit, shy & forbidden. Spat out
my seeds. Told me I was bitter.
I crawled all over. I crawled
to church and climbed
on the pews. I crawled
to my bed, bled out
on my mattress.
I crawled into the arms
of a woman who told me
I looked pretty
on the ground.
She slipped me new skin,
watched me crawl into it.
Spread herself open. Let
me creep inside. Wiped between
my legs with a warm towel.
Held my hips with the desperate
grip of Saint Jude. Gathered me
in. Swallowed my shame.
I take a step forward, like
newborn calf,
like wilted woman,
like shriveled fruit untouched
by the sun. She
weeps for my skinny
legs and my insect fingers.
She weeps for me with
her palms out. She opens
them wide. She shrinks
me to honey.
Kay Mancino is a creative writing major pursuing her undergraduate degree at SUNY Purchase. Her short fiction and poetry have been published in several magazines such as Italics Mine, Sandpiper Review, and Submissions Magazine. In her spare time, she crochets and hangs out with her professor’s fifteen-year-old dog, Willa.