“Nobody’s in the kitchen,” my baby jokes
while staring at the walls and drilling holes
through the cabinets with eyebeams brighter
than blue halogen lamps. A two-year old
can appreciate the feigned surprise,
the sheer audacity of finding nobody
in empty space. When nobody reappears
in the tired pages of Goodnight Moon
she titters and giggles, indexing the blank page
with a sideways glance back to the kitchen,
fingering the void and making it something,
naming this nothing and becoming a maker,
a goddess on the brink of being the one
she was made to be, a somebody by fiat.
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