By: Tessa Campbell
Because my feet are like fish that flop helplessly below me, I decide to walk on my hands
but my hands, sharp like knives, carve a path everywhere I go so I can never hide.
My father says that the key to my success is to climb beyond where my fish feet touch.
That is to say,
if they don’t
try to swim
away first.
And to mount every ladder, even when the rungs run out and just keep going.
The radio buzzes below me as I climb, threatening my exposure.
I slash peonies with my knife hands to shush my anxiety.
but the reckless flopping of my fish feet alerts every passerby so hiding is off the table.
So perhaps,
Father, I am
destined
to be me.