His Blue Volvo

The Universe, your dad, sometimes wear his hat a little too late / appear in his blue Volvo when
the storm has had its full of you, and you’re a spilled mass of blue dress on your classmate’s
doorstep after a birthday party, or your naming ceremony / one in which you were given a name
you’d rather not repeat to something as lifeless as the doll you own.

He would wrap his hands around you, sing you a song about a girl who learned to trust her
wings, and tame the winds. He would wash a smile up your face with impressions, while you bob
your head to “This Little Light Of Mine” when the traffic light turns a bright red.

You would make a promise, the third that week, that you’d never make friends because they hold
storms in them. Urged by the universe to wear your Elsa dress, and your combats. To “freeze the
world, and stop ‘em,” you would go to school.
Psyche pilled off, and sitting in the corner of an empty classroom, he’d pick your frozen and
combats body, and you’d listen to “This Little Light Of Mine” again when the light turns red.