“In the morning I forget my questions.” 2. In the dim light and chill of early morning, I gather papers and books while keeping an eye on the oatmeal and reminding my daughter to get dressed and, yes, she must go to school and, no, she can’t wear the purple dress for the third day in a row. And stop asking because I will not buy Barbie cereal. Sprawled on the floor with panties on her head and socks on her hands, my daughter holds one of my textbooks upside down, pretending to read. “Little Miss Muffet sat on a muffin, eating her corduroy . . .” I pull from Zoe’s hands The Rise of Puritanism. How many times must I ask you to dress, I say. And no, I haven’t seen the purple dress. My daughter turns her back to me and picks up a magazine. “With one mighty shove,” she reads, “Gretel kicked the wicked witch headfirst into the oven.” That’s it. I snatch The New Yorker out of her hands. I’m taking you to school with panties on your head. My daughter, reaching for the black pants I dangle in front of her, mutters under her breath,
SIXFOLD POETRY SUMMER 2013
Eva Heisler
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