not twins, but sisters
I get caught in the details.
In the quick flick of a crooked smile.
In the smile that doesn’t quite reach the eyes.
In the eyes that darken over the course of a tense moment.
In a gaze held too long.
Both mine and theirs.
I am caught.
Within the shift from warmth to curdled.
I remember two sets of knees, kid fuzzy
jammed against each other, jostling
and how the jug of water wedged between my feet
was even warmer than me.
I remember my sister’s giggle as she snuck goodies
her fresh oversized front teeth on her bottom lip, gripping
trying to muffle her own glee with pink cheeks
as my dad drove my mom’s dad’s pickup, shifting jerkily.
My sister and me, in flip down side seats,
knees to knees
swaying sideways, in harmony
our movements tethered to my dad’s feet.
Watching the women ride cruisers along the beach
in sarongs and leopard-print bikinis,
their bodies lean except for their bellies
their crunchy chest skin gleaming.
And the men, passed out face down, sunning,
salt and pepper carpeting on their bodies
they seemed otherworldly
washed up on the sugar sand, indecently.