These baubles exchanged for light.

Treasure paid for things I wasn’t old enough to fix.

Careful What You Wish For

Seriously! Last night I had a dream that I was a white man. Unlike in my youth, when I fantasized about such things, this time I did not ask for it—and yet there I was in the mirror: high, sharp cheekbones; sensible but not-too-fussy hair; striking eyes; good facial hair. I decided to see how it went.

I wasn’t particularly exceptional but my average was something everyone seemed impressed with. In cafés and bars and in big green open spaces I suddenly felt like a vortex instead of a stain. I felt like I would always find a way to take care of my daughter. I went back to college and strangely, I finally understood physics. I walked by classrooms and impressive buildings like they one day might be named after me. I stopped second- and third-guessing every decision I made or desire I had.

I took dance lessons, and my beautiful dance partner said, You don’t have to tell me you love me, I’ll tell you I love you and always have.

But we just met, I tried to say. You don’t know about . . .

I don’t care, she said, grabbing me and twirling around on the parquet like we were meant to orbit one another just so.

When I woke up from this dream, the first thing I said to myself was: “that dream was not your fault.” And I repeated that, over and over.

Tourist with Daughter

I sit with our daughter at the top of the Space Needle,

eating hot dogs we paid tourist prices for.

It’s fine, really, in this place high up, these assumptions

of who we are and what we can afford.

I want to tell our daughter that my dad could never afford

something like this for me.

But what good would that be.

I’m not using her name in this poem because

she hasn’t given me permission.

When I was about six, my dad looked me in the eye

and challenged me to point out one time

he failed to keep a promise.

I thought then of half a dozen occasions but stayed silent.

I ask our daughter what she likes up here and she says

the clouds, and the boats.

From up this high you think you can see everything.

I’m amazed she likes sour corn syrup sticky candy more than a Kobe beef

hot dog.

When she looks bored, I want to tell her that

we can’t always have what we want.

When really, some of us can never have what we want.

But instead I stay silent,

look at the clouds and the boats

as if for the first time.

Contour

I know the contours of want: the board game about getting rich

from the thrift store, missing too many pieces to play

so I made up my own game.

My sparkly Tonka truck that Mom tried to sell at the garage sale.