Half Of Me

Dear Kool,

We were so cool with our American Girl dolls and our side pony tails.

We made so many promises long dissolved into the bright red sugar tumblers.

We played war with cards and polished with nails.

You wont see me with a manicure this side of life ever again.

Some where a long the spectrum a switch went off inside of me,

I don't think I've worn high heels since I was nine.

But,

I

will

never

commit

to

the

amount

of time

and school

it would

take

to be

a judge.

I don't judge!

Now you have an American helpless kicking you in the ribs.

Now you have a house.

Presumably with windows.

I just like to see it in word formation.

There's no subtext.

I swear on my pinky you precious lipstick secret.

When you crawl through tunnels under Massachusetts

public parks

with someone every summer away for the most of under fifteen,

It becomes rather noteworthy,

rather down the spout of those ricola contraptions,

rather something to stop for,

and count to three completely before accelerating for.

It's big.

It's an extra breath on the yoga mat tomorrow.

I promise never to compare.

I promise always to be different.

And there.

Not that I ever noticed you were only half of me or anything,

I never cared that my dad wasn't your grandpa.

Or that my brother's have never met you.

I swear none of this ever mattered or married or carried away the way you hugged me that night.

Or helped me with science.

Sometimes my arms got tired holding it all up,

but I also should have eaten something other then the clear Pepsi your father,

my brother-in-law,

kept locked up under the sink.

I have to give a poetry presentation in one of my lit classes.

I wish I could just play pearl jam and describe your hands,

how even though the hard parts lacquered pink sparkles,

the sand from the box still pours from the tips now peeking through blazers and cuffs linked

to eggs without shells

that hatch

in the heat

of

your

life/tunnel/sugar bowl.

kiss it.

Always,

Skin and Toast and Lunch Money