Nectar

Her hair between my fingertips as she was crowning. I am selfish. I didn’t want to share her with cruel world. Still don’t. Her hair twirled, soft tornadoes on the nape of her neck as she slept. Blink. Now she is five, hair to her tailbone, a golden braid that I keep for myself, pinned into a picture box like a dead Monarch, to break me later. From Barbies to curtain bangs. Blink. False lashes and lip gloss. Auburn sun draws down in her highlights. A boy reaches to touch her hair. He is the daggered world of which I am meant to protect her. Of course, she is beautiful, coarse hair in his teenage hands. I see her, slowly floating away, high in a gondola over the beach boardwalk. Eyes on the horizon, they go hand in hand, but first she picks me the biggest flower spring offers, a rose with wavey petals, large as a newborn’s tender head. Bursting with the song of nectar, it is soft white, and quickly turns fuchsia.

Amanda Chiado is the author of Vitiligod: The Ascension of Michael Jackson (Dancing Girl Press). Her poetry and short fiction has most recently appeared in Rhino, The Visible Poetry Project, The Pinch, Barren Magazine, and Entropy. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart & Best of the Net. She is the Director of Arts Education at the San Benito County Arts Council, is a California Poet in the Schools, and edits for Jersey Devil Press. www.amandachiado.com