Joe Peacock

Thirteen

 

I worked the Sunday dances,

but my sister’s frowning voice that night

refused to let me go. And when I saw

the root-beer stains, the sagging

tee-shirt neck and cowlick out of place,

I grew quiet and rushed to change.

 

My sister died soon after, one dark 

and golden day. Hers, the only broken

bones, the story in the paper said.

 

Thirteen was a thankless age I guess

until, in August, one month later,

a heavy-breasted girl pushed up to me

as I was bent to fill the Coke machine.