My mother says, It’s a miracle you’re here.
And I look away.
Because I know
what she means.
My conception was one-for-one.
she says alluding
to my father’s
consummate failure.
Back then, it was a secret shame,
no clever ads on TV
for little blue pills.
She’d call me to say:
“Tina, in this life, I’ve been cheated.”
Back then, I homed in
on the word, cheated,
assuming he’d strayed.
I sent her Smart Cookies Don’t Crumble,
a title both remember.
Now quietly I ask, What
did you expect me to do?
But she’s still mourning what she’d missed—
defending her decision to stay.
He was a good provider,
a good father, she says.
She talks about him as if I’d never
met the man,
as if I’m not
his bullseye daughter.
INSTANT NOODLES 