Lasagna night.
We layer
noodles, sauce, cheese,
Dad asks me
if I’ve given more thought
to touring Columbia
(where he teaches)
before I apply early admission.
Heart races as I
imagine my dorm room,
glimpsing Dad in the courtyards,
hosting April uptown for meal plan dinners.
Say, okay, sure, maybe in a few weeks.
James,
dark eye makeup, piercings, tattoos,
Dad’s Teaching Assistant and April’s tutor,
eats with us
then helps April with Spanish,
plays chess with Dad.
Mom, home later after blowing glass all day at her studio.
April and I sit, discuss her new teachers,
my new staff,
spin ice cream into a sweet soup,
watch 90210.
Dad says we should watch shows about real-life things.
Mom tries to join, asks questions about Brenda, Brandon.
I turn up the volume.
Mom eats cold lasagna alone.