holding der Forverts, the almost-dark interrupted
by the glittering edges of glass vases, gilt demitasses,
the porcelain child’s starry dress; worn oriental rugs swirled
over the floors like water. My grandfather would lift me
onto his lap, hear my aleph bet, then send me outside
to play among the rosebushes in the dirt patch
between the house and the garage, six bushes across
to the twisted wire fence with the scallops on top,
six back to the locked door, the Chrysler sleeping
like a whale in shallows. Over my head, perfect roses
with the names of kings and queens unfolding on sparse
stems of tear-shaped leaves; on the ground, nothing.
My first eyeglasses sparkled, the frames plaid
as the wrappers on Lorna Doones. As I walked to school,
my feet came up and the houses along Chauncey slid
from side to side over my head as though the earth
were a bubble I was inside of, but in school I could see
the board, Conservation next to a chalk tree, its roots
sucking up pastel blue water.
When I lied to my friends, I’d be blind by 13,
the world stopped, there was music, and I swelled
through the leaves like a fairy-tale giant. The halos of stars
looked like cars coming. Now it’s hardest to see
in the mornings and evenings, Bradford pear leaves melt
into house paint; alternating lights and darks become
racing animals. On sunny days, the world divides itself
into planes, clear and sharp as glass
stained with bright organisms. I become a child, the lens
of my eye, the curve of the Earth.