my father eats sardines

and pickles

but my mother drinks the juice

to help her pitted skin

but her pimples still pop

their greasy spit on her chin


I help my brother draw pictures

of long arrows and short arrows

to tell time

as if we actually understood it

and learn how many apples the elephants ate

(enough to feed all the African children)

at the kitchen table,

like we’re normal


while my twin fights magical creatures

in green tights on the television screen

as if he was a hero

as if we all were heroes



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