At home,

you taught me
how to crack an egg;
how to separate
the yolk from the white,
and put the rest in the fridge —
yellow pools for pudding.
Though, we never made pudding.
You taught me
how to beat stains,
how to separate
reds from whites,
to wash delicates and brights
in cold water.
You hung both to dry.
You taught me
how to drink wine,
that reds are bitter
than whites
with meat.

At school,

they taught me
subjects as periods,
how to learn
math and english,
because they're different.
Who was I good at both?
They told me
the direction I'd go,
how to tell left from right.
I still get lost sometimes.
They read me
the places I'd go,
how to separate
fact from opinion,
the world we live in.

At work,

they taught me
a business mind,
how to define
plans from ideas,
as if ideas
are not future plans.
They taught me
to manage time,
how to separate
work and life,
Still, I struggle
to juggle those words.

Hold my hand poetry,
the architecture of words,
cause my soul is caught
between
my mind separating words,
and I can't seem to
piece them together again.