5/30

Fact: I used to crawl under beds.
Any chance I got, I'd be flattened
skittering beneath metal frames and boxsprings,
it was my high ground,
my knot in the oak tree.
I could see all I needed,
6 inches from the floorboards.

On top floor of my childhood home
we placed the bedrooms,
I could stand on the windowsill
above my sister's bed, look down
on our street, our lawn,
all the strangers coming through
the front door.

The morning of my nana's birthday
there were more people than I knew the names of
milling about, sipping tea,
wandering around our quaint street
sharing their thoughts on
the weather, their children,
the quality of cookies at the kitchen table.

I was on my tip-toes, watching my nana
pinkie in the air, smiling at the chatter around her,
taking in the street from my crows nest
my sister's pillows crumpled from my path up.

He had dark eyelids, a neck not used to craning up,
a sweater the colour of our china cabinet.
He saw me. He was through the doorway, on his way up.

I am gone. My knees are kindergarten quick,
down the hallway, carpet burn agile,
I am in my high ground, 6 inches of sightline.

Twelve seconds later, his socks are walking to my sister's room,
behind my invisible path down the hall,
he is following my scent.

I hold my breath as he walks past the bed,
he does not call out, this is not his house
he does not know the little girl's name.

His socks disappear back down the stairs.
I breathe again, 22 years old,
wondering if this would be a different poem
if I hadn't known how to treat the world
like a hiding place.