You are ten and reading The Egypt Game,
calling gods from thunderclouds,
wolves from the woods by moonlight,
summoning caverns with spoons
in the cool dark and dry orange clay
below the broad and empty porch.
You are ten and you are beginning
to sense the infinite silence
around the way your mother
sends you down with the coffee,
leaves the pot by the sink
until the grounds begin to green.
You are ten and think that if you knew
everything then nothing could surprise
you ever again, you would never
find yourself balled in the closet’s corner
while your father’s feet beat the tile,
hurt the stairs with their heavy tread.
You are ten and know that royalty means
that when you stretch out your hand
to shelter, intercede, prohibit, prevent,
it works. That princess means power
before it means pretty. The crown you weave
from the hill plants is a talisman.
You are ten and if you could fly
you could go wherever you wanted,
and if you could become invisible
no one could make you stop reading
and understand the way your mother
walks into the house.
Hannah Ringler is a poet, gardener, freelance editor, and preschool mom living in Durham, North Carolina. She composes poetry at red lights and standing at the kitchen sink, and in the evening runs the Poetry in Plain Sight program for the North Carolina Poetry Society.