Maybe her name was Lily: a beauty like no other.
In the summer you would see her in the park,
Bright and graceful, her arms opening,
her fingers stretching, a bright red in her cheeks.
She welcomed all, she welcomed you.
Whenever I needed, she even welcomed me,
her eyes holding specks of her adventures. A mere peek
into her existence.
Maybe her name was Iris, a pleasant voice to have around.
She was kind, one of a million,
but one nonetheless.
She had a whicker chair in the garden. On days
that held summer breezes I sat with her,
her breath of watermelon and voice of divinity.
I would listen to her tell a million stories,
none of which I could understand.
Maybe her name was Ivy and she looked frail and dull.
She was ordinary by visage, but I'd witnessed
her amazing strength, her lengthy patience. Her ability,
one to conquer any task. She waited and prevailed.
When she spoke her words grew,
they slipped through stones, but never once
did they skip your mind. She broke through to you,
and in that way she was beautiful.
She could've been Lily or Iris or Ivy or even Zahara,
but you wouldn't know.
They stole her in the night, when no one would've thought.
"In a garden," they said, "She'd look ordinary,
But in a pot, she'll simply astound."
Her legs were trapped and through the glass
I could no longer admire her.
X-23, they called her.
Their work of art, their creation. A girl
so trapped, a clay cage, and I cannot set her free, I grip
to her posthumous fame, but it comes up an empty bucket,
for I carried it to a dry well, a single effort to which I cast shame.
Unique in any garden, peerless in any meadow, poppies and snapdragons at her feet;
they could not see it.
They could not hear the words she spoke
and so they could not know her name.
Lily or Iris or Ivy, it does not matter,
They call her X-23.