A dog named Jack slurped
the ice cream off my cone so fast, 
it tore a hole in the air,
that I nearly fell through.
But didn’t.

My friends and I have a swimming club. 
We put our feet in a tin pan of water.
I wish Katherine and Mary were my sisters. 
“Florence is your sister,” said my father. 
But that’s not true.
Florence told me so herself.
She said don’t tell anyone.

My mother stands at the door
staring at something, maybe me. 
Sometimes, from the corner of my eye,
I see another house where mine should be. 
I walk around the block backward 
thinking this will help me find it.
One day, I know it will be there.

Oma said I am a monkey
that my parents found in the zoo 
and decided to take home.

I like to play on monkey bars:
One knee over the bar, and twirl
so fast my head spins.
The world becomes pretty that way, 
like spun meringue,
whipped cream on a sundae.

When I grow up, I will sell tickets at the Majestic 
like my mother once did.
Then I can eat popcorn
and watch Charlie Chaplin movies all day.

At the Capitol Building is a statue of a lady 
with no clothes on top, holding her breasts. 
Where’s her baby?
Probably left in her crib to cry.

My mother said, “I can’t imagine where you get these ideas.”