Auto Biography

My name braids images as a preverbal toddler.My mother’s loving hands braiding redribbons in my hair.

My bedroom a blue marbleacross the hall from my parents’ room,another planet.

My small girl’s closet full of embroideredblouses, eyelet dresses, and superhero underwear.

The dining room where my mother braidedloaves of bread and patchwork quiltswith yellow paisley wallpaper roping sunshine.

Braiding my dimpled selfunder the table, chairs,and my mother’s assured movements.

My name flits a mean birdfrom a bright braidto a purple cavern.

My name forces slippage—is what happens when you can’t speakthe acts. I was too young until too lateto tell my mother what happened.

The babysitter, our neighbor’s niece.Her flesh parted the smell of onionand dried apricots.

The cruelty in how she parted and pierced me.My chubby legs unbraided.My own toys used for slick torture.

My name screams a hole in the airthe next time my parents try to leave me with her—my mother sends her home.

But once was enough to roughentextures of my body, change my desires.

My body ripped open to a languagebefore my mouth could form a word.

My name teeters in the first-gradeschoolroom where the teacher warns usagainst unwanted touching.

An epiphany: Me.I raise my hand and shareonce upon a time, I had a babysitterwho touched me unwantedly.

The other students giggleand teacher tells me,stop trying so hard to bethe center of attention.