If I Were to Name

some of the different parts 
of myself: there's the manager, 
the one who asks you countless 
times to please turn off the lights 
when you leave the room, reminds you 
that you need to call central scheduling 
for an upcoming test (and by the way, 
this week is also recylcing week). 
That's also the one who scours 
the internet for information— best 
ways to prevent raccoons from pooping 
in the yard, how to tell if an ankle 
lesion needs more serious attention, 
how to better organize the pantry 
and the medicine cabinets. There's 
the child, skipping in the aisles 
of the grocery store after finding 
sweets she hasn't had in years: coconut 
jelly, fruit in syrup on which to pile 
a mountain of shaved ice in a tall glass. 
And there's that same child, younger
but older and sitting quietly by 
herself in the window bay, feeling  
how the minutes are pushing her 
to the front of the line, telling 
her to get ready for what she 
can't really know is coming.