She had lank hair, was not underfed, but still bony
—wore scuffed shoes, a homemade dress—a plum
colored taffeta all the mothers said was unsuited
for school. And, she didn’t like her name. But,
I liked her house: bare walls, sparse furniture, and a few books
stacked on homemade shelves. Her older sister’s sky-blue
formal, embroidered with silver stars, hung on a nail.
Her brother stashed cases of expired Nehi soda
under the house—faded orange, red, purple: all the same
sugary taste. Bikes lay against the porch: no fenders, no brakes.
Discarded clothes filled the attic —polka dot dresses,
linens in field flowers, sleek tailored crepes, hats to match
in straw and felt with spidery netting, and one Ike jacket if
you wanted to dress as a man. The purses were the best
—Lucite clasps, overlarge, often a surprise compact inside
with pressed powder and puff, a smaller coin purse on a chain,
a mirror, narrow as a credit card tucked in a small slot
—maybe lipstick, usually Pagoda Red. Shreds
of tobacco, still moist and sweet, lined deep dark bottoms.
We threw waded up hankies in a corner with girdles
and bras. Lace curtains became bridal veils we fastened
to our hair with magenta orchids, velvet violets,
and a strange clump of faded, wrinkled green roses.
Once, I’m invited to supper. I watch her mother
transform a pound of ground beef into burgers for six:
onions, white bread, eggs, tons of salt and pepper,
mixed, then—hitting the hot wood stove like puffy soufflés
—the centerpiece for steamy collard greens, fried potatoes,
lemonade, and more bread. Her father delivers coal
—sits at the head of the table, quiet. I try not to clank
my knife and fork. He looks at me, eyes circled with soot
ground in deep creases, then pulls out a worn bill,
sends the brother to the store for peach ice cream, says softly,
“Sister has company.” After this—I call her Peaches.