with golden eyelashes he sleeps
after telling the Martian story
to which only Mythili would listen
black and dark makeup-less beauty
that none of us can understand,
the one who said three months back
that she’s most like me
(all i thought of were the endlessly
imaginative doll stories, and how i hated
dolls) only to realize that
my most responsible proactive middle child
had me pegged

and how can i sum up an August Friday?
it would begin with carrying
an ever-bending begonia
through three hallways
and six sets of stairs
my endlessly flamboyant classroom colleague
holding the admin parking door open
to ask
why are women so needy?
is this why i don’t like them?
before the sun has even completely
emerged from Colorado clouds

it would end with pumpkin pie
burning up my no-a/c house
and my baby’s hands weaving
bits of crust
over her apple pie dream
as expertly as she did at age three
when Thanksgiving meant more to me
than any other holiday

in the middle, with my middle child?
school posters and schedule nightmares,
the signage of every teacher,
where i walk into that school
and every capillary in my body
is pumping blood for students
i haven’t even met

a meeting, a speech that makes me
want to hug my enemy
and wish that last year
could have been mine
ours
and the end-of-day email
blasting me
in ALL CAPS
for putting my students first
even if HE WOULDN’T

Mythili, Mythili, Mythili
who was born a writer like me
a crone before her time
whose head turned towards me on day two
how could i not know
after the
twin-in-looks-forever-defiant-Izzy
and
shy-as-a-cactus-in-December Riona
how could i not see myself in her?

the pie is in the oven
and 24 people will populate
the space between an 1864 ditch
and the playground of my youth
before i can even blink
my baby has turned 8

and we will have pie.
apple. lattice top composed
by nothing-like-me Riona.
pumpkin. requested by
my twin, Mythili.
whipped cream. to spray
in mouth of endlessly-flamboyant Isabella.

tomorrow? we will party in the park,
forget that there’s no cake.
or that schedules aren’t students.
and remember how much,
how painfully much,
we love each other.