Blue Blinds; Earth, Wind, and Fire.

At eight, I taught myself
how to braid. Three strands of a shag
poncho in the furthest back
seat of the family’s grey mini van, folded
one atop the other, on repeat. I thought
I had invented something. In secret. In the dark.
Unbuckled and free. Probably
much like my parents, and the suburban
home, at once, real
nuclear. Complete: one dog, a fish
and oddly, two chameleons adored by my little sister.

“Look how beautiful,” the strangers would say.
Touching the curls matted to my face,
Whispering about the baby’s blue eyes,
curiously unlike anyone else’s.

“Let’s dance,” mom would sing, and louder
the funk would sound. Yellow kitchen walls,
arms swinging back and forth, knees
high, eyes rolled back. “Remember,” I would later ask,
“when I wrote that song, for the dead mouse on the sticky trap
in the basement. Sitting at the top of the steps. Crying,
on my plastic guitar?”

“Of course,” Katie said, “once, you were stuck
too.”