you are only three
but you think you are a man
roaring “fuck!” at pop-eyed teachers
in creased royal blue polo shirts
telling you to act your age.
last week you were a surgeon opening
the hollow cavity of a pumpkin
and when I asked you what you found inside,
you said either thanksgiving, leaves,
or cake, but you couldn’t be sure.
yesterday you were a librarian with a stroke
of genius
rearranging the books across the plywood shelves
by colour—
red on the top shelf, yellow in the middle, blue on the bottom.
this morning you were a growling dinosaur
sending children shrieking away from your scalpel-sharp
teeth and claws,
as khaki-slacked teachers
in creased foreheads
told you to stop acting your age.
today we glue ornaments to a construction-paper tree
and as you hang twelve or thirteen candy canes
on the same branch, you whisper
to me that you are actually a reindeer.
crumple-mouthed teachers
with creased hearts overhear
and tell you Halloween was over last month.
you taught me to fly during naptime
and to live off of invisible pie.
