There is a part of me
that stands in space.
One foot on a twinkling piece of pixie dust.
The other stretched out behind me.

There is a part of me that flies
above the circus tents and the houses
of my childhood friends.
On my back, floating with the clouds
in the gray sky.

There is a part of me
that lives in a moss-carpeted forest
with diamond-studded trees and flowers
under my feet.
With Baba Yega's house half a mile away.

There is a part of me that sings
constantly.
The hopes of the world clinging onto the wings of my voice.

There is a part of me that is so lucky.
And has gotten more than a fair share.
I know how to take for granted
better than anything else.

There is a part of me in Russia.
Laughing with my mother's classmates,
whom I feel like I know.
In that Russia, I find myself.
My angry head cooling to the sound of
guitar and birds.

There is a part of me that is so angry.
It is in my clenched teeth, snapping eyes,
and in my blood.
There is a part of me that suffers
more than a child should.
Because the world's pain weighs me down
and slows my step.
It chokes me.
I wish I could vomit the pain out.

There is a part of me
that loves life so much
that I feel like the Red Sea has split
before me when I wake up
and see the miracle.
My heart beats with the rhythm of the
setting sun.

I am so alive.
I just can't see it.