After six months
I find the door and step
into my kitchen. I see myself at the oven...

Perched on the metal stepstool
in the dry corner of the cellar
I'd cozy up to the ironing board...

One child sparring at air,
another executing rough aerobics
with flailing arms and legs...

Lying on her belly, she raises her nightgown
above her waist, manipulating, side to side...

No coffee. The dark, acid brew recalls
mother smoking and telling stories...

Tolstoy wan't the first one
To turn that age-old phrase,
That happy families, they're similar...