In the bath tub he makes magic
potion with shaving cream.
“It can turn people into bears
and fish and fleas,” he says.
“May I have some?” I ask.
And add, “I want to be a bird.”
He pulls the frothy bottle close
to his chest, hand over its lip,
grins, “No…you’d never be
our mom… ever again.”
And I am pegged. Does he know
I want to fly away? Not forever.
Just today. And maybe tomorrow.
Or a week. No, a year. West of here.
“Can you make a potion that wears
away so I can turn back into me?”
He shakes his head no. I smile and leave
him singing of bees. I think, he is right,
there is no getting away from me.
2007