I Did Not Call My Shame, Shame

I called it being good. I called it being careful. I called it small red squirrel, copper tail in pine trees. Unexpected warm breeze. How I moved through the house always, as if at night, to keeping the sleeping still. I called my shame a secret. I called it fear. I called it I should have licked my finger and held it to the sky because the truth was volatility. Electric fence, canyon wall. A town with too many bars. My shame did not raise its voice. My shame curled up sweetly on my chest, it purred. We were a sleepy nest of legs and fur. I called my shame a quilt. I called it nothing. My shame was a stowaway, my private companion, we imagined the desert, we imagined the sea. My shame was a mountain lion in dry grass moving gracefully. I didn’t know my shame was separate from me. Afraid in math class, walking home, on the cordless phone, I wore my shame like a stale mink coat, I hoped it made me pretty. My shame didn’t mind that I was young. My shame sniffed the air and I thought it was my bad heart. That I would harm others as easily as the sun spread over my skinny body, autumn drought, blue trampoline, freckled knees. My shame was, let’s say it, cozy. My shame’s lean muscles glistened in the moon. Rippled as the river over stone. When my shame tried to leave, I called it back to me, it slinked along the canyon wall, yellow leaves, sure-footedly, it returned. I called my shame back to me.

Read more from Issue 21.2.