Jackie O.
“They’re just staring because we’re beautiful,”
you’d say. After a while we figured
it must be your Jackie Onassis hair,
not your hand holding mine
‘til age twelve, your pinky tucked
between our palms like a small animal
burrowing away from the light. I found it
comforting and irritating: your long nail
mindlessly chafing, hard as a beak.
We slipped under the lights, ducked our chins,
did our famous grocery shopping.
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