I was born in the afternoon.
It was something my mother had planned.
(Like much of my life, she had it planned
to the hour, to the minute, perhaps even to the second.)
I was born in July,
a month hot just like my temper,
just like the peppers I liked to eat
on dares from friends who knew I would.
I was born, tangled in excitement and hopes,
for I was the first girl, I was the only girl.
To say I was a disappointment is an underwhelming use
of the word.
To say I messed up and let her down is an understatement.
I was born in the afternoon,
but nothing went according to plan.