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