Picking out paint swatches

for the house we will never move into––

I pocket the shade of cashmere blue,

a square of my mother’s cyrillic,

the love she braided into my hair.

 

Counting quarters

for the washing machine.

 

Explaining why you

take the bus to school.

 

Singing Fly Me to the Moon

with Frank Sinatra

under the stars.  

 

Spraying Windex

on my swollen back

where the jellyfish wrapped

its stinging tentacles around

my ribcage.

 

Setting the brown bag

full of peaches down

on the windowsill.

We have to wait 

for them to ripen.

 

Standing outside the thrift store

dressing room

as I change 

into the ten dollar 

dress she found, 

bright pink

with flowers. 

 

Scrubbing the kitchen tile

with a rag and a bucket,

on hands and knees.

 

Bending down and tying

my little brother’s shoelaces

into two bunny ears

because he never bothered

to learn.

 

Translating English

into Russian

and then back into English

again.

 

Spelling out her last name

Letter by letter.

“It’s G-A-P like GAP. 

Then 

O as in Oscar,

N as in Nancy,

E as in Edgar,

N as in Nancy,

K as in Kiwi,

O as in Oscar.”

 

Cooking soup in the kitchen

and carrying up the stairs,

Spoon feeding the warm,

thick, potato-laden chicken broth

into an open mouth.