was trying to fall in love with close proximity and yoga,

while it was warm enough to begin a bad habit

of sleeping outside: and my brother experimented

in expressing puberty through linguini, and silences

like linguini: and my sister was being serious

as a tomato all day, continuing her love affair

with molecules or moles or something

like the news – only cute from a distance –

and Dad was trying to cope with the knowledge that

Purel can’t save the world, a new hobby

of opening doors with his sleeves: and Mum

practiced extracting flavour from conversations

and sauces, salt sneaked behind her back because

tastebuds weren’t invented to hurt feelings, and

the dog had discovered the secret to happiness

at last, rolling in the grass all day… oh, the cat? on the mat

perpetually – and I – with boring, blood-filled veins – decided

I was jealous that I could never have a beard

like Geoffrey’s… and the News, finally

happened to us while I ate

two kinds of cereal in one bowl, because

I could…. and everything

was like that – long, slippery, crushed

tomatoes – we couldn’t find the ends