Read Poem: there isn’t another happy birthday, by Rowan Tate

she is up at 5:20am baking a carrot cake, her husband
already out to the gym. the table
is set for three. in her mind, that little thing
would’ve come down the stairs in those
striped purple leggings, pigtails. cake for breakfast. orange juice
mixed with apple juice, the way she liked it. by 8am, two sets
of dishes in the sink. the part of the cake iced
with her name stays untouched: analisa. the door
to her room, unopened for three years.