When I was three my mother would leave me
at my aunt's. I used to watch her dressing
in high heels by a mirror. Undressed, napping,
I crawled between her stockinged legs and married
the garter belt that kept my eyes from closing.

I closed my eyes. Beside a skinny river
I built a tent of sticks and garter belts.
In her stockings and high heels my aunt would fish
for guppies while I fed the fire and lay
back in my Captain Marvel Jr. blue suit.

Shazam! the fire clacked, and I was eight.
My aunt no longer dressed in front of me.
We napped together, but we lay apart.
I closed my eyes. The river in mid-winter,
cracked up the middle, was an icy mirror.

Beside the fire, through the ice I fished.
My aunt inside our tent lay sick and tired,
dressed like an Eskimo. I could not see inside
from where I fished and shivered like a stick.
Shazam! the fire clacked, and I was twelve.