When I was ten, my mother sat me down
and told me my real father was a narwhale.
My report cards always read, Daydreams too much.
What my teachers did not know is that I was busy
dreaming about eating a grilled cheese sandwich
with a narwhale or how all 4,000 pounds
of my narwhale father was going to sit
on the kids who threw rocks the size of houses
at my head. How he was going to stick
his overgrown tooth in Robby’s eye for stealing
carved pumpkins from my back porch.
How he was going to submerge like a submarine
when large Lisa Dooley challenged
me to meet her behind the janitor’s tool shed.
My mother thought I was slow, which
was fine because I loved Peewee Herman.
Doctors looked inside my head, but all they could ever
see were narwhales fencing with their tusks
off the coast of Russia, or catching some cod.