Basement
When my sister came back home, she brought Earth, Wind & Fire.
Brought polyester dresses, size 0. Brought pills in a circular pack,
suede wedge heels, leather choker, blue eye shadow. Left her
boyfriend in California. Left his white hands, her black eye. In our
basement, I crashed on her bed on my stomach, feet up and waving,
while we listened to Roberta Flack, Harold Melvin, lyrics on the liner
sleeves. She brought Janis Ian . . . murmured vague obscenities. She
weighed 90 pounds. Brought some kind of sickness that made food
sad. Found a new boyfriend in a tequila sunrise, brought him home
to our parents for dinner just once: quiet, polite, big fro, tight shirt.
We never saw him again. She brought bottles and bottles and bottles.
She stored darkness in the empties. At night they stood on her dresser,
singing old soul songs as the air moved over their mouths.
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