Belly full. A mother’s bellybutton
protruding in beauty. In two
months, birth. A room,
shaded with paint, new furnishings. The
crib, colored with the softest bedding,
the place where
I will sleep, dream, suck my thumb. I’ve
become a face, hybrid in features,
mother’s nose,
father’s eyes, they’ve become me
& I am left to grow. They’ve picked
blue, the color of a boy,
the shade in which identity is named,
masculine. At night, while being fed,
my mother whispers me secrets,
things not even my father knows. She takes
my deep breathing as understanding
of her words. Such intimacy
between two should be what starts life
correctly. We rock slowly, both
nearly falling asleep inside
the rocking chair’s trance. Now, I am
terribly two. The age that shocks
in behavior, but where
I have started showing & becoming
& introducing what my behavior
shall be. I can run & dance,
identify clouds & name everything that flies
“birds.” I hear things like “timeouts”
& “no, no, no!”—
daily. Now, becoming five. Kindergarten,
surrounding of other children &
obeying another adult. We
color & nap & play outside. I wonder
if the rest of my life will be this way? For
show-&-tell, I bring
a favorite picture. My parents laughing brightly
with ocean waves playing behind them. This
is the picture that will always
be with me. The one that when I remember as an
adult, will bring me to the same classroom
where I’ll wish I were again.