Little Iceberg

by Luciana Arbus-Scandiffio

I was one when Dad worked at Party City.
We were so rich we ate ice cream cake for dinner.
This was before the orange grove burned down—
This was before Aunt Joan died in a yoga accident.

In those days, there were no basketballs.
I walked twenty miles to school each way and still, 
No luck, birds got caught in trees.
I faked sick to avoid my part in the school play.

I'm doing better now, thanks, my late husband is gone.
He took my milk money, my pantsuit, my expansive
collection of dead wasps. I like to think I've learned my lesson—
I like to think that my face is bigger than I know.

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