There were always six of you in every class.
When the teacher would call roll, lilting over your last name,
you would grin and press your arm toward the sky
like you were the only one,
like you were named after an element
or a constellation no one had heard of before.

We were partners in Home Ec.
and you monogramed the top of our cake
in purple icing. Beneath the sweeping curve
of our shared letter there was a chunk missing.
Your hand had skipped a pace, the muscle forgetting,
and a glass cup toppled onto our finished project.

You caught my face going grim
and threatened to frost my brain yellow through my ears
until I was knocking over kitchenware alongside you.
Then you said if we can’t laugh at what will **** us
then we have no place laughing at all.
I just looked away and continued wiping flour off of the counter.