Haute Dish The Arts & Literature Magazine of Metropolitan State University red flower
Summer 2005

 

 

 


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the origin
Sandra Simbeck

We used to dance:
two ballerinas performing in front of our families,
I was the shy one, always
had to be coaxed onto the stage
of the living room.
We ate Kool-Aid straight from the container.
Our mouths stained red
from the sugar of our youth.
Your grandmother’s homemade Playdoh
lay heavy in our stomachs.
Popsicles in the summer cooled our tiny bodies—
yours brown,
mine white—
from the many miles we put on our bikes.

Playing with Barbie dolls in your porch:
Remember
when you locked me out? I wailed
and wouldn’t talk to you for days.
Twister and Girl Talk during sleepovers:
Someone would always end up with
gum in their hair
or a wet sleeping bag.

I look at you now
sleeping peacefully in your mahogany casket.
Your dark hair
cascading across
a pink satin pillow.
Even though you never knew him, your father
is here: weeping, pained,
sorry for never knowing you.

The football your high school team signed
rests beside you.
Jewelry, pictures, mementos,
the poignant scent of apples,
the letter I wrote the night before,
All tucked beneath your body.

The purple bruise on Robby’s arm
is still there
from a week ago when you punched him.

 

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