We bring out the good
china, the ironed shirts,

Oh Sugarfoots! and pleats.
Kate keeps Sweetpea

locked in her room and
I bathe rosemary

in extra virgin olive oil.
One look from my father

makes me swap
my miniskirt for slacks.

Kate asks if he’ll tuck
a napkin in his robe,

but he shows up in jeans
and isn’t a messy eater.

He discusses his overseas
work with my dad,

and we play Jenga.
I’ve always had a thing

for pulling from the base,
collapsing into the next

wrong thing. I couldn’t tell
where potential ended and

self began. Went goth after
I stopped believing my joy

was beautiful, pierced
my lip at the tattoo parlor

on the way back from
buying shampoo, bought books

on Buddhism because they
matched my floor pillows.

When the priest left,
Dad put on Nevermind

and let Kate air-guitar
on the couch. I didn’t

have to do the dishes;
the wine-stained glasses

and sauce-spattered plates
could stay till morning.

Who would I be without
the performance of perfection?

I felt like a cartoon character
opening a closet filled with

the same sad shirt. I put on
the yellow gloves and scrubbed.

---

Image: “Nuns Playing Guitar, 1966” from the Saint Rose Hellman Library Archive