At four you were fascinated
with the length of my adolescent blonde hair,
how I piled it high at the top of my head.
You would climb into my arms,
twist it, and say, “doorknob,”
as if you could open me and crawl right in.
When I put you down, you would settle for flinging open
every door in that house on Salvio–
the one with the clothesline and roses,
where each room lead into another–
and, we would give chase, circling
through them until we were dizzy
and couldn’t remember
who was in charge of pursuing
and who was meant to be caught.