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I imagine you now as you could be, slightly blind, peeking over glasses,
to read is all they're good for, a family stigma.
Silver twirls along the ends of coarse black hair
that squares along the neck.
Your mahogany face gently pleated after menopause,
and hips, my God, more hips.
You acknowledge me as your sister.
I follow you along the boardwalk, near the beach in
Atlantic City.
The bright salt air
brushes our ears and reminds us as children
splashing there.
We exchange secrets:
You didn't have cancer at 39.
You didn't lose both breasts.
There was no suicide attempt.
No funeral.
No six young children left behind in the dark.
I follow you along the boardwalk near the beach in
Atlantic City.
We exchange secrets.
Mama loves you more.
But we ignore her...this time.
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