For the longest time she believed
only houses in Kentucky
had plaster-swirled ceilings, but
there they were
in another new place, Arizona.
She began to rearrange the truth,
learned to unbelieve.
She could tell herself
that Alice or Jimmy
had not really been a friend
 or that her favorite chair
Daddy couldn’t fit into the truck
hadn’t been all that great.
The hardest to leave behind
was her guardian angel
on moving day
she’d searched behind flimsy
hollow doors, in empty
cupboards, under the sofa
where he must’ve gotten lost.
But she’ll never forget
how he’d stand close to her
while she practiced balancing
on the crumbling, rocky fence
in the back yard
 careful not to look
down, chin up, breath strong,
steady, just the way he’d taught
her small arms
 like his immaculate wings
lifting, poised for her next flight.