Dear Tania

I wish for you two pairs of wings,
one hard and outright, one that beats to power
your flight out of East San Jose
away from dingy cheap motel apartments,
up from the VTA lot where your stepfather
hit you like a man, forced that horrible wrong,
out of your mother-viper’s nest
where you stay pinned and broken.
I wish for you one purple humid evening
when locusts’ whir will quiet the thrumming
in your head, the childish thrill of spotting
the cold light of fireflies hovering over
flowerbeds ripe with peat moss,
flashing a message only you can decode.
I wish for you a night to spend safe and spying
their wink, watching for patterns
of nocturnal, winged bioluminescence,
to read their secret message. To believe
it all means something; to hear yourself say it
and know it is the truth.