Lunch With My Sister

We want her to cut her hair -
that torn dark mist that drifts
unsurely toward her shoulders -

we want her to wear socks
in winter and shoes instead
of these blue sneakers, K-mart, $9.99

whose graying warp already shows
one toe worrying through the canvas.
For years we wanted her to take a bath,

to throw out the multi-colored cardigan
whose buttons hung like grimy medals
and whose elbows had been worn

to crimps of brown and yellow yarn
that lost from year to year
their tight-knit memories

But that was before this polite young man,
twelve years her junior, who sits with us
in the renovated-yet-again Town Cafe,

a fourth cup of coffee shaking
in his hands, asking if it's all right
if he has another Pepsi, while she watches him,

keeps his cigarettes, feeds him onion rings.
Ersatz country paper covers the cafe walls
like blemish cream; a few straw wreaths

warm the vault-like space the way
a candle would a barn. Oldies radio,
Connie Francis, "Stupid Cupid".

That cold north bedroom, ice edging up
the inside glass. "Do you remember," I ask,
"the singing contests we used to have,

we'd imitate Connie Francis, Brenda Lee,
then rate each other, who was best?"
A forest of mascara hedges her blue eyes.

The old floor boards are trembling.
For a moment, I see them as if from below,
stretched hollow as a canvas, the center

coming apart, beams tumbling in space,
end over end, above our upturned faces,
coming down. He grins, apologetic.

"It's just me, jiggling my feet."
We want her to be wary and not to spend
her meager money on his cigarettes

and Pepsis, we want her to be circumspect,
sexually responsible, and maybe
she could take her coat off indoors,

and if not cut her hair, at least
tie it back and not wear so much
streaked make-up that the waitress

coming with the check looks at her
and him and hands the check to me
with a look of what's supposed to be,

understanding that excludes the two of them.
Most of all, we want her to be seventeen
again and beautiful, second in her class.

student council president, cheerleader
in the thick wool sweater
that I stole from time to time.

We want her to go through the university
in four years this time instead of five,
without the rages and hallucinations,

the shock treaments and committals
And I want back my anger at perfection,
I want to hear her voice again,

hanging like an icicle in the dark
across from me, first her thin voice,
then mine. He smiles at her.
There is milkshake on his chin.
She holds a napkin out, dark hair swaying
like a climber's ropes.

K.M. Hooke