Born at midnight, fish were spotted on the ceiling, and language,
all song and curlicues.
Mother was a pretty ribbon, father, a painted merry-go-round horse.
I hunted arrowheads,
watched water-skeeters on the surface of a pond.
I had a pet chameleon with half a tail that lived on my windowsill.
Somewhat abstract, I loved swimming pools, the deep end,
kissing boys on the high school hill,
listening to the sound of distant trains in the middle of the night—
I walked in hot mud
ate pie cherries from a tree above a creek,
was baptized for the dead, read Edgar Allan Poe,
could crack codes, enter caves and sestinas.
When asked, what do you want to be when you grow up?
I always answered, “the weather girl.”
Copyright © 2026 by Kathy Evans. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on April 6, 2026, by the Academy of American Poets.
