Becoming a Poet

I was five,
lying facedown on my bed
when someone stabbed me in the back, 
all the way through to my heart. 
I screamed & my parents came running,
my father carrying me into the living room.
We sat in the chair with the high sides 
like wings. I kneeled on his lap, 
my arms around his neck. 
My mother sat across from us,
saying, honey, it was just a bad dream.
I looked over my father’s shoulder
at the dark ocean of air,
at the colorful, iridescent fish.
I tried to explain what I saw. 
It’s your imagination, said my father.
The fish swam like brilliant magicians 
toward the window. Then they were gone.
My parents didn’t know death like I did. 
Or the fish, their strange beauty
my secret.