By Lily Kardon 

You bolt up in bed, an eager weed.

There are constellations on your jammies.

Your hair is tousled by the linens.

‘Where’s the picture of my great,

great Grandfather?’ you say.

Hands up; you count your

ancestors on your fingers.

You don’t know yet that,

for our people, there’s

something sinister in a number.

Or a star on the sleeve.

I smooth your cowlick and

grab the yellowing silk frame–

it pours like the morning

into your lap and you lay

your head on the pillow, content

with the company

of ghosts.