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My Daughter Has a Super Power


My daughter has a super power

that I don’t understand.

She doesn’t understand either.

It scares her,

it scares me, but

I don’t want her to be afraid

even if I’m afraid.

I don’t want her to know my fears

because if she did,

it would worsen hers.

We watch Frozen, compulsively.

Frozen 1, Frozen 2, compulsively.

You see Elsa, I tell her,

you see her powers?

She’s scared and doesn’t understand

her powers either.

She’s different and that’s okay.

You’re different, and that’s okay.


My daughter’s brain lights up,

a short circuit of electricity,

again and again and again

throughout the day.

She wears a pillow backpack

with a pillow headdress

to help protect her skull from

surprise head drops.


Sometimes, it’s so strong, so sudden,

it violently propels her backwards or forward,

like a magnet in her head

that’s attracted to the floor.

Sometimes, her body crumbles,

like her muscles give out, a leaf

gently released from an autumn branch

when she falls.


Sometimes, I can stare into her eyes

and she’s gone

somewhere, I don’t know.

Arendelle, Narnia, Hogsworth, heaven,

somewhere I can’t follow.

I hold her seizing body,

I hold her hands,

I stare into her eyes, and

I tell her she has a super power

and one day, she’ll learn to control it

like Elsa.



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