My sister likes to spray whipped cream

into her open mouth, straight from the can.

My dog whimpers when you hug her, soft

in her teeth like she loves it, like she hates it.

Like she’s not used to touch that doesn’t sting.

My mother’s eye is not the same as my eye.

Hers is sage and soil, of the forest and earth.

Mine is of the sea, daytime tide and glimmering

scales and tipped by evening sun. Both ringed

by circles the color of dusk. Both filled with

hot tears when we’re seeing red. My brother’s

eponym jumped off a cliff when our dad was

just a teenager. It was a horrible accident, but

I know better. We could never call a thing what it is.

I used to make lemonade in the kitchen with

my grandmother, the birthplace of my own name.

I’d help her cut the lemons, measure out the sugar.

Once I told her something to the effect of,

Your son likes to kiss my mother with his fists.

She kept her eyes trained on the sugar, swirling

into a pitcher of water, and said sweetly, We don’t

talk of such things, honey. My father takes his seat

at the head of the table. We eat our meals in silence.