Allison grabs hold of a rock
she names triangular,
she explains there's a lion on her body
and she lets loose a roar,
she points out the letter "A"
and announces it as her own.

Everything she sees is hers,
everything she hears is hers.

She hears an airplane overhead
and she holds her ears naming it "airplane,"
she sees a bug fly toward the brambles
and chases after it in search of its home,
she names the bug "bug,"
a squirrel she names "squirrel,"
she follows it up an embankment then loses it to a tree.

Everything alive is alive to her,
every object belongs in her hand.

Allison eats a piece of cheesecake
then licks her sticky-sweet fingers,
she drinks from a bottle of apple juice
that she bought with her own folded dollar bill,
she has a clear plastic backpack
in which she holds her possessions.

Everything in it is hers,
her own small pieces of the world.

Allison is the holder of many things, for example
the red fleece sweater her mother ties around her waist,
or the book she'll buy at Toys Et Cetera
and have read to her later at home,
or her mother's easy embrace
which she names only mommy, and mine.

Everything is hers, she knows
everything she knows is hers.