When Grandma said her legs would look like mine had the gravity of her life not done what gravity does, what she’d prayed it would not do to her, & I, seven, said I wished I was bigger, when what I meant was see that I am small, when I thought I was not small, when all I wanted was to fit inside Daddy’s arms, when I knew & pretended I didn’t that those arms painted the bruise on Mommy’s face, when I wanted to be artwork too, when I thought to be loved was to be helpless, to need saving. When I was helpless & could not be saved. When I was fifteen & told no one the texture of my step-father’s hands. I was graceful as Grandma in her twenties, each of us floating outside our battleground bodies. We were light in this way.
Bio: Anastasia DiFonzo (she/her) lives and writes in Oakland, CA with her chaotic cat Klaus. Her debut chapbook, A Certain Serenity, was published in April of 2022 with Puna Press. She also has words in New Contrast, Kalopsia Lit, Serotonin Poetry, and elsewhere. She is on Instagram at @anastasia.difonzo.
