In the beginning there was light and so much fight to be drunk into our very bones, not an eye sunk in, nobody drunk except on finger paint and what the stars might taste like when we thought stars were small, when there wasn’t far to fall, before the white-tiled kitchen floors grew too far away for us to notice the texture of the black mortar that held them in place like Elmer’s glue. School is a bright maze of halls that we walk through hand in hand and mark our heights against the wall, unsure whether to fly or to stall and stay close. Our eyes are level as we hopscotch round the ankles of women and men; I think we’re going to be friends. They weave a Charlotte’s web of pigtails and bright red balloons, but isn’t it just true that we feel safe close to ground, tempted upward by gold and warmth but torn, for the kitchen floor is close and nice and cool, and doesn’t burn us to the touch.