We were sleeveless daughters once in the sleet nights of the wild fields, smokes and talk, eyelids stained, in the spunout drives, riding suicide, in the chardark, in the moonlight. There was hiding coughing— do not make a sound— inhale a puff of a poison, did the coffin slam shut? Rubbing off fingernail color, reciting “touché le table”— fingers ginger on the lacquered wood, tapping sendoffs to the ones who wore the coveralls.
What about his knocktooth kissing? What could we say?
You are too soon to forget the swelling from the cold lick of indigo light, bellies burned by mowed lawns, by the not yet sun. We wore bikinis and felt like flamingos— long-legged and lost.
You could say we were this: we were on a cusp.