“My mother’s saddened face wrinkles even more,
the pasta isn’t right.
Mother,
Father,
Sister,
and me,
The words stick like daggers in her.
His tongue is a knife and she is butter.
She looks at me,
I look at the ziti,
I wish she could find sympathy.
His eyes clench to me,
A responsibility,
to be my father’s boy,
I crush under the heat.
“It’s not right.”
Mother has been falsely beat.”

Another:
“I am six.
We sit and discuss.
My father thinks it’s ridiculous
“Just buy him a costume,” he says.
But we use safety pins
And my mommy
makes me a mummy.
She uses toilet paper and tape.
It takes time to design.
It begins to rain
I can’t run away!
I’m in a parade!
As it begins to droop,
I begin to stoop.
It dissolves without
my mother being involved.
I say, “I blame you!”

A third:
“My mother talks to me
over the phone.
She is so
far away.
However,
I can hear the disappointment
echoing in her voice.
I tell her I must go.
She urges me to stay
I cannot let go
of the game
I love to play.
I know I have to
leave it.
How?
And I’m not ready.”