Two sisters: one thin, one fat.
One prickly and difficult; one longing and warm.
One in the top bunk, one below,
the button-eyed stuffed animals leaning crazily on a shelf
and everything was painted turquoise and orange and yellow, glowing.
You chose those colors for us
and I kept the animals in line
so at night, while we slept, they might wake to dance and play
without their fuzzy paws in each others' faces.
You could spin a yo-yo better than anyone on the block,
win more games of foursquare or sockout,
beat me in poker or gin rummy,
make the sewing machine purr.
I broke the bobbin.
I read the lives of dragons.
I brought home As.
When we were smaller, Dad tickled you at bedtime,
goofing and teasing.
He patted me, the island,
reaching from his own island
recognizing our equally severe borders.
I think of you and cookies, popcorn, candy bars that cost a dime,
marshmallows that you stole from Mom's cupboard, secret,
then worked into white, shining taffy between your index fingers and thumbs
while watching television.
I think of you and discarded clothes heaping the floor,
the shirts and underwear lying meekly tangled on their heads,
the dirty socks that always smelled like corn chips.
I think of you and laughing when we were supposed to be asleep.
I think of you breathing, slowly,
and shadows on the ceiling above my bed, moon between the curtains.
I remember poking your white belly at the swimming pool
because it stuck out more than mine.
You curled away, cringing, eyes shut
hand pushing me back: don't!
I remember Mom saying, You would be so pretty, if only.
I remember Dad saying, Julie is fat.
I remember my knees stuck out like knobs, festooned with bandaids or bruises,
ugly but thin, and proof I might be loved, in the end.
March 15, 1996