Some children want to go farther

than the chain-link fence, the row

of trees on their street. I wanted—more,

something I couldn’t articulate.

Sometimes, I still feel this way.

Then, I expressed it with a drawer

of travel postcards and foreign stamps

in the desk where my father kept his cigars.

To impress my friends, I ate

Play-Doh, red, salty and sickening.

In the backyard, solemn with ritual,

I pointed out the magic doorbell

encrusted with paint—under the sagging

porch—swore, if I rang it

at midnight, all the animals would come,

leopards even, summoned by their empress.

                                    In the darkness,

they gathered around me,

sat on their haunches and waited.

I whispered to my subjects—

furry, silent creatures with luminous eyes.

                                    My friend sits

across from me, strokes her dog,

who gazes at her as if she’s the empress.

She says she’s forgotten

how she snuck into the yard to lay claim

to my power, to ring the magic bell,

and unmasked me in front of everyone

after she waited and waited,

but no animals came.