I’ve never given you the word
for your fear: somersault.

And maybe that means I’ve failed.
In 8 years I should have given you

somersault, Rosetta Stone
for the nausea between start and stop.

How much stomach your mouth
can hold, sky and grass flashing

like a projector reel gone awry.
Cipher for terror. Loss

might come next and for that you’ll need
entire phrases: floral arrangements, advance directives,

beautiful obituary, things I’m only now learning
to sound out. You are 8. Your hands

smell like pennies and your laughs
bounce like beach balls through the house.

There are words I want to keep
sealed in thick envelopes.

Entire pages of the dictionary
I want to tear out.

-Leigh Anne Hornfeldt