Half-sister of Saturday
We lived two hours from the Bean,
but baked them for lunch every day
in July. I grew to hate turkey jerky
and the milkman, as well.
That day though, I waited for you
to show up on my front porch—
can I come out and play?—but today
a BMW scooped you up first. While
I played Tic-Tac-Toe with my spit,
watching it dry and worms crisped
in the post-rain scorch. You pranced
down the street carrying a scooter
in cut offs and a bikini top. We were 10
and too blonde for our own good,
you just didn’t know it yet. The window
rolled down, the person in the front seat
murmured something I was too far away
to hear. I turned, hair whipping slightly
against the wind. I heard you laugh,
high-pitched and bird-like. No, that
was the car starting. You waved at Demeter,
or was it Hades? Were you smiling at least?
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