ALL WE FELT WAS JOY

by Maria Vargas

I remember last summer, Alejandra.

When we were girls, dancing

in that season of joyful recklessness,

muddy hems and bruised knees.

Frolicking on the ranch, wild

and unashamed, oblivious to time.

Fig beetles murmured around us.

A rooster feather floated

into a puddle of rain. German shepherd

puppies whimpered for love.

All we felt was joy, and all we knew was

nothing. Until I got my first period.

I didn't realize that was metamorphosis:

when something wakes up,

surrenders, changes.

A pomegranate blossom unfurls

from a crimson calyx.

A monarch butterfly ruptures a chrysalis,

unfolding its wings.

A snake abandons its old skin,

seeks refuge in the shadow of a rose.

You dance in the rain, shrieking

at the sound of thunder as

I gaze out the window, collecting stories.

I am not sacred anymore, Alejandra.

I am too frightened.

But I would rather be alive

than hallowed ground.