Nineteen of Fifty

The girls slow-dance; it's Sunday afternoon
and grandmother's asleep in the back room.
The hardwood moans and sings under the presscloth
of socked feet, and the smells of sun tea,
white bread and butter, chicken legs with crackling skin,
a peppermint after, loll on the back of the tongue.

Grandmother dreams in the back room—nothing annoys
the girls—not an old woman's snore or spittle, not the shift
and whim of the radio, turned low, they get used to it—
they do not know they love each other, they got used to it—
sisters, what that means, a hug that doesn't pinch apart but sways,
hand on a shoulder, fingertips on a dress, intentionless,
not pretending to be a boy or to be in love with a boy
but only rocking the tilt and press together, budding
out of the middle school wastes and mulch into the cradle of summer,
and they do not know they will never say
how wonderful it feels the moment before they stop dancing,
when everyone is happy, grandmother in the bliss of sleep
and the girls in one another's arms without an explanation.


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The Sun Room