Was it the sight

of my budding breasts,

Which seemed to

Sprout suddenly,

Like the hyacinths

in our spring garden?

Was it the shape

of my oblivious legs,

Which seemed to

Swell suddenly,

Like oats boiling over

on the stove?

Was it the sound

Of my defiant voice?

Which seemed

To grate suddenly,

Like our old sash window

Stuck in its frame?

When did my father

Succumb to fear,

Which seemed

To descend suddenly,

Like the dreaded iron curtain

From his cold war?

When did I

Become untouchable?

Which seemed

To chill suddenly,

Like a coffin closing

On my child’s body?

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