acorns

chocolate chip cookies & milk. the man on tv
advertising avatar. tonight, the episodes
are back to back. every night, it feels special
when he says this. mom bought the tray table
where i rest my chin, first, for dad to eat in bed,
his IV too short to stretch to the kitchen. now,
they’re for TeenNick & dessert. simple pleasures
like this outweigh: i am eight, scared of home invasions,
too often wet the bed, stains on my mattress

pad. stomach aches are anxiety, mom thinks
constipation. don’t want to be the subject of amber
alerts on the news, wonder what i will do when i
am kidnapped, too. not knowing the real danger
is at home, tonight, i sleep alone, draw arrows
down the length of my stomach in permanent marker
for the school nurse to find

later like i found dad’s implantable port buried
by the doctor’s army inside his chest. a landmine
beneath our shelter, which is now nothing
but autumn debris.

every morning at the bus stop i’m left to pretend i’m an airbender.
pile acorns between the insides of my torn sneakers. turn off my sight
& listen to them roll & shuffle, one hoarded space between my legs.