Emma Nash

Dear B,

Sometimes in the morning I see the circles under my eyes,
and think of you.
I remember you, mad at me for waking you up,
dragging the pillow back over your dandelion locks.
I remember you, four feet tall,
soccer on a Sunday afternoon.
You, sliding in to sleep with me,
and tell me the kind of stories
little brothers tell their big sisters.
           Today I built a fort at Edward’s house,
           and played baseball in Miss Marsha’s yard, 
           and I found a goldfish in the creek behind the McKinley’s.

B, the other day I saw a boy who looked like you,
but a few years older.
I saw him leaning against a girl
and her against a wall.
And I saw his hands pushing their way into her shirt,
and her eyelids pulling her into darkness.

Then my imagination betrayed me, B.
Brought my worst fears to life.  
And I saw you, leaning against a girl
and her against a wall.
And I saw your hands
on the smooth skin of her stomach,
pushing their way into her shirt.

Who do you think they were, B?
Do you think he has a big sister worrying for him?
Or she a little brother to worry about?
Do you think he made blanket forts in his living room,
and she listened to stories of neighborhood baseball?

Mom says you played well in your last game.
Knew you would.  

Call me when you get a chance.


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