Photograph
Lyn Lifshin

My father sister and
I in the trees with
our hair blowing. My
sister as usual has
something in her
hands and grins in
a way no one could
say no to, dancing
in restaurants
until she pulls in
to herself at 19
like the turtles
she collects. But
here she’s the sweet
pouter, my father’s
pockets bulge with
things, the gum
he’ll give us in
the brown chair
later reading the
funnies. I’ve got
a little pot and
my arms are heavy,
my father touches
us both lightly
as if he’s not
sure we’re real

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