When I first learned

The concept of death,

I saw an old, leafless,

Barbed tree.

A cousin of mine

Was lost in the mountains.

I was told I’d never see

Him again.

I’d have nightmares

Of my parents turned

Into skeletons,

And I’d scream awake,

My father quieting me down,

In my parents’ bed,

One little leg tucked under

The blankets.

My mother taught me magic.

I could move with my mind

A toy sword to the other room.

After tiring everybody

With tricks learned from

The book Auntie Kathy

Gave me for my birthday,

My mother told me about

My great-grandparents

Who were healers.

Later, when I told

Jim Walton about an urge

To speak plain, true love

To my people,

My father reminded me

That this was given to me

Since my birth,

And it didn’t belong to me.

My father had three large

Bookshelves that now

Sit in my apartment.

Little Elizabeth points

To the “K”—stands for Kafka—

Just before she goes to bed.

I was imagining those bookshelves

When my brother told me

About Show and Tell,

As he gave me his warm shirt

Before leaving for school.

I’d sit for long periods

Staring at a Nerf ball

Trying to move it with my mind.