Once upon a time, in a fairytale- no, that’s not quite it.

Once upon a time, a boy woke the moon. Ah, that’s better.

Next to all of you I feel small, like an ant.

Dad laughs. “Squirt, you’ve always been small.” Thanks, dad.

“Amateur hour,” she says, and I raise up my chin.

“Nah, Shelly, I ain’t no amateur.”

Once, I climbed a tree and thought I touched a cloud.

It shimmers, you know, against your fingertips,

and if you reach out you can almost-

I got an awful burn once, from the sun falling down on

me as I climbed a tree like that one- smarted for days.

Ma: "Strawberry red, you were. You were

always too rash for your own good, though."

You told me to reach for the stars, ma,

how was I supposed to know they would burn me?

“Common sense.”

Thanks, ma, knew you had faith in me.

No, where was I? I’m an amateur compared to

you all, experts and poets and dreamers.

I cannot make words twist the way you do.

Once, in a fairytale, a girl pulled down the moon with her words

and tied it to a tree- No, that’s still not it.

“It’s almost time to come in, darling.”

Not yet, ma, I don’t have it just yet-

My hand above my head, framed by sunlight

and veins glowing from the inside.

Once upon a time, a king turned his

subjects to gold with a touch of his hand.

“It’s almost time for dinner, sweetie.”

Just a minute, I think I’ve almost got it-

My dad took a bullet, once; it grazed his arm and

he ended up with twelve stitches in a perfect little half-moon,

just like a fingernail had pressed a bit too hard into his skin.

There we are again- hello, moon. There’s supposed to

be a man in you, living in your chest, staring down at us all-

Real or not real? I keep asking that question

but I never get an answer.

Dad: "You’re looking too hard."

I can’t stop, Dad, I’m almost there-

It’s almost silent out here, but the silence has

a sound to it, a melody of its own-

Shelly: "You’re trying too hard."

My family has a history of mental disorders.

Asylum- a prison or an escape? Tell me,

brother dear, why you’re so normal.

Maybe it’s the glasses- the rest of

us have them, but your vision is fine.

Perhaps. Once, in a dream, I touched the sun.

I wonder why it didn’t burn, really- I know it should have.

Above: a citrus pie. Orange: a shade of sarcasm.

Shelly: "You’ve got plenty of that."

Dad: "Ain’t that the truth."

Oi, Dad, you’re not supposed to agree with her.

An anteater traipses through the dreamscape-

I’ve never seen one in real life, you know.

Once, in a prairie, in a desert, in the ice. Once, in a forest-

We’re back to the tree, aren’t we?

I was a ninja for my sixth birthday- that was

the first time I tried to climb a tree. I fell.

A branch: brittle, fragile, breakable-

But it can still hold a bird, a cat, creatures of the treetops.

Life: it’s brittle, hanging over the edge like a bird’s nest.

To understand, to live- I write.

Once, a girl picked up a pen and wrote-

I think I have it, Ma. I think I get it, Dad.

Ma: "Great job, darling. Now can you get inside, please?"

I know, Ma. Just one more moment-

“It’s dinnertime, darling.”

I know. Descend from the tree,

descend from the heavens, become an ant again.

An ant can carry five thousand times its body

weight- it is mightier than a lion.

Reach up to the sky- don’t be afraid to be burned.

It’s going to happen, yes, but that doesn’t mean I have to stop.

There’s a tree, climbing far into the sky, painting the stars with

shadows; a bird, chirping away in its branches.

“You’re too young for nostalgia.”

Nostalgia: a curious word. Wistful, longing;

a childhood, almost close enough to touch.

Once, a girl picked up a pen and wrote-

I wonder what she will become. Ant or anteater?

Friend or foe? Predator or prey?

The story keeps on, and maybe someday-

“Grab some citrus pie, sweetie.”

A hand, an ant, a tree- a story framed by the sun.

We are all characters in a story, watching the moon go by,

waiting for the sun to rise.

“Okay, ma.”