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the fold of her body is a frame to look through,
thoroughfare to a memory of skin's salt,
sharp aftertaste of late evening, the sun going down.
in the lick of light, the driveway's baked pavement
steams under the spray of the hose, water rising in
a smell of hot metal and warm air, suntan lotion,
and damp bathing suits crumpled in towels
on the bathroom floor. the mind knits scent to knowing,
as if a whiff of the wet driveway and a stale swim suit
could resurrect my sister's body,
and not merely that, but her mind even,
her love for me. how much of what we remember
ceases to be true? then the girl
in the peppermint-striped suit with her sisters
washes mom's station wagon, the low sun glowing
their skin to red perfection, and nothing has happened
to cause us to doubt that this is right,
this is all there is.
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