Lemon-Cherry Popsicles

She is unpredictable.
Within one hour she

can tell you about how
the weather is far too

unbearably cold for her
liking and be a**-naked

in a tub full of ice water,
with a lemon-cherry Popsicle

and a collection of Thoreau’s
essays sprawled out on the

tiled bathroom floor.

I think the reason multivariate calculus makes me shake more than a nursing home resident is because I cheated on a math test in third grade and never told anyone until right now,

she confessed to me one
afternoon while I was

marinating in textbooks.

I hate the city, and the snow, and the sea,

she announced to me from
the backseat of her brother’s

car. What do you like? I asked her.

I only ever know what I don’t like,

she said. Her temper can’t
hold with me, because

I ask stupid questions,
drive incredibly slowly,

and remind her to
take her medicine. I can’t

forgive her because she’s
erratic and she can’t forgive

me because I’m unbearably
systematic.