when i am four,
my mom knits a tiny ladybug
into the edge of my bedsheet
as a sign of belonging
like the birthmark on my forehead
that tethers me
to my sister and foremothers.
i am barely seven,
when the bedsheet hangs on the hallway mirror
and smells of death.
when i ask,
i am told it’s the smell of incense,
and the spirit might get entrapped
if it sees itself.
when i’m home alone,
i press the ladybug between my fingers,
and drag it down,
and whisper
into the quiet,
if you are still here,
please do not escape,
please live in the glass,
haunt me,
please please please,
but only silence stays,
and the mirror looks back at me
with my own–
my father’s eyes.
i am eight,
so i think i’m old,
when i notice mom looking up,
talking to someone,
searching for someone,
but i know
that the ceiling is not the sky,
so i seek for a face in other faces,
when i’m on the train to the music school,
when i play on stage,
and the audience cheers for me,
when i watch tv,
and the actors in soviet films
wear a black moustache.
when i am fourteen,
i carry around a knife,
but each time the blade touches me,
i look up,
and i hope he looks back at me,
so instead,
i litter my thighs and forearms
with tiny ladybugs,
i carve them into my skin
with an inkless pen,
as a plea.
i am eighteen,
when the world starts coming down,
stepping on me,
crushing me,
watching me thrash about
as i try to survive
for another year.
i’ve been missing my father longer
than i have known him.
the last time i see it,
a piece of my childhood bedsheet
is used as a cleaning rug.
as i wipe the mirror,
a ladybug,
squashed between fingers,
looks back at me.
