In 1948 I was twelve years old and I thought I wanted to be  
alone.

In 1948 I was sick.
At least that is what my mother told me.
She said I saw things that weren’t there.  
Like the sun in the bathroom  
at midnight. She said my little friends
in the feathered grass weren’t real.

In 1948, I think I was infected.
Sometimes I dreamed about things
I know I shouldn’t. I’m not allowed  
to talk about it. If I could, I would run away
out West. There are cornfields there. And nothing.
I think I want a whole lot of  
nothing. And corn.

In 1948 I spent the summer
In Maine with my mom
and stepfather.
I was alone most of the time
in the field. My house in the distance
spun in circles, and I dreamed  
about not being in Maine with my mom  
and stepfather.

In 1948 I was right.
Everything is real. I still have to keep my eyes open  
when I fall asleep because I know the bookshelf
Talks to me at night, the stairs  
always spiral in and out of view,  
and my friends in the grass were real.
They still speak to me  
inside my head.  

In 1948, I was twelve.  
All I wanted was to be alone.