I had pigtails like Olga
when we still lived together-
the darling pixie of the 72 games.  

She didn’t get the 10
for her Death Loop,
but bested Johnny Carson.  

I was your sweetheart,
with fancy buckle shoes
and a seat on your bike.  

In 76, Nadia was the queen,
perfect 10s for grace and precision,
but no easy smile. I wanted to be her.  

When the divorce came,
you filled your home with art,
beautiful women, and white couches.  

I knocked a precious leaf off
the sprawling jade plant,
and stumbled on the stairs.  

You despaired of my 
weight and my scars, 
of my gracelessness.

I inherited your homely face
and soft bones, but failed
at being a math genius.  

New siblings came along,
you called them Sweetheart,
and forgave them their messes.  

Mary Lou flipped across the screen,
and graced our Wheaties.
I did impossible moves, too.