kindergarten -- poetry by J.M.

gingham dresses patched with ladybugs

and hair tied with bows pulled out by snacktime

i learn to rollerblade as my father jokes about

tying a pillow to my bruised bottom so maybe

i won't cry every time i turn a corner and i grow up

across the street from the most perfect family i have ever seen

with twins and a golden retriever

we are not the family you see

on sitcoms or in car commercials

and we are not blonde

i will never see the twins again and

i am moving to a house with

water in the basement and a town with

more pride flags than american ones

and i feel at home beneath the

peeling awnings and too new

edifices erected stretching higher

than even the grandfather clock

and soon i am asking

to ride the bike i finally

learned how to operate

below the shade of the sycamore

i ruminate about falling on our roof

and i have friends, not that i know any

twins here and my mother is telling

me about block parties and picnics,

a world full of people who live

in houses that are not

twins//triplets//quadruplets of each other

is a world i know i will get used to but

it will take some time for me to

understand that we are not moving

again so if i drop a penny in the fountain

maybe it will come true before i

am laid to rest beneath the sycamore that has

not yet fallen on our roof

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J.M. is a 16 year old author from the East Coast. She enjoys documentaries, her cat, and Taylor Swift. She writes about mental health and outer space, among other things.