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Kara constan fnI e

Cousins

In the dark, cool basement,
my grandmother's petticoats
drooped
like wilted cabbage roses:
one pink, one red.
Jackie got pink
because she always did,
and I pretended to be mad,
but really preferred red.
Our not-yet hips let them fall
around skinny knees,
so we hitched up our dignity
with safety pins.
Both of our brothers admired
our lacy twirlings.
For a few hours they carried
us, pretending we were queens,
for once subservient.
Our castle grew
in spires
of fat blue spruce.

But the boisterous boys
got tired of civility
and finery and courting,
and retreated to their tepee.
We girls settled into our palace parlor,
the grass embedding coolness
into our legs.
We prepared a tea
of lemonade and blackberries
that mashed into sweetness
against the roofs of our mouths.
Summer reigned as queen,
and crowns of honeysuckle