Each time her father peels her face 
his fingerprints spread wings on her neck 

 

I coil into a mayfly; peeking
the wings carried her away; fragmented 
thousands of my eye-windows; fractured 
their family love; a sick thorny leaf 

 

the monk and I read prayers;
we sit gazing at many smiling Buddhas
I wish they’d stop smiling and soothe her bruises 
the gods do their deeds; unaware of care 

 

her father sinks her shoulders
a ragged frame holds grueling forces
her eyes; an overflown lake of dead pollen 
I know Buddha saw all of that 

 

she wishes to turn into a butterfly
to live a transient life
tiny breath, ephemerous flaps
no father could reincarnate fast enough 

 

to catch her in his sharp net
her father clips her broken wings 
the monk chews over his stillness 
the gods ponder their deafness 

 

we sit in the temple afternoons after 
acknowledge new scar paths
on the forewings of her injuries
we call that detachment; for 

 

we hide her father behind the wheels of suffering 
we hide her bruises behind the dying butterfly 
we hide our rotten spring at the laughter 
                                                           of our happy god