Jaclyn screams for another Tootsie Roll,
the backseat banter of three six-year-olds
on the way to gymnastics.
I am still afraid to eat, disregarding
the tuna salad in my Mickey Mouse lunchbox.
asks my mother
if I will ever eat again.
I like to be small;
a Barbie doll on the balance beam.
I like to be weightless;
floating, flying, falling into the foam block pit.
No one tells Jaclyn to be hush up,
and I can smell the watered down chocolate
on her mouth.
My mother is driving, and I know
she can’t stand the noise, too, like me,
she prefers the quiet of being alone.