CHICAGO

My mother waters the tomato & pepper plants. I steal drinks from the penny-
taste of the garden hose. It is my favorite drink. I am six & think to cross the 
street by myself from time to time, but never do. I am six, my sister is five & 
we hide inside clothing racks at the store just to feel the black-sick fill our 
round bellies when we get lost, lost, lost from our mother. I am six & I am 
laughing with a mouthful of cashews. I think nuts is the funniest word I have 
ever heard. I am six & I break all of my mother’s lipsticks & glue them together 
& put them back in her bathroom drawer. She’ll never notice. Sometimes I 
find sad envelopes, the ones with red and blue stripes, meaning these 
envelopes fly, meaning thin feathers, meaning bird with a little worm in the 
beak. Envelopes from her father, I think—she snatches them from my hand & 
says, No, no where did you get these? Now put them back.

Copyright Credit: Aimee Nezhukumatathil, “When I Am Six” from Oceanic. Copyright © 2018 by Aimee Nezhukumatathil. Used with the permission of Copper Canyon Press.