top of page

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.

March, 2020.

bottom of page