kiosk pendants
around her feathered neck. She wouldn’t eat
the meals our mother cooked and instead slurped juice from cans, clawed
the soft and flaky centers from the caramels
in the cut-glass candy dish our mother kept for guests. She grew
bird-boned and slender, a brittle core inside each inky feather. That year,
though no one had died, not really,
my mother filled the basement freezer with casseroles,
each aluminum dish an archaeological dig of hash browns, beef tips
browned in butter, cream of something soup. In bio lab
we pinned and bisected earthworms, diagrammed their tiny hearts
on worksheets. Somewhere a teacher called out kingdom, phylum, family.
We smeared the cultured cells from petri dishes onto slides and marveled
at their manufactured one-cell lives. I ran the track each afternoon,
my mix tape turned up loud. The sun set
earlier and earlier each day behind the goal posts. At home
my mother diced and browned the onions. My sister
made herself a feather bed. The first snow fell around us as we slept,
flakes soft as down, clotting the trees whose leaves had not yet
turned and fallen, turning the lawn
bright as a spotlight.
The Case of the Double Jinx
THE SCARLET SLIPPER MYSTERY
You’re Nancy Drew and you drive a blue coupe.
You drive fast. Your mother is dead.
She’s the new-hired help and you’re a nosy houseguest.
She’s a model turned jewel thief and you’re hot
on her trail. She’s a pretender to the fortune
of the county’s richest missing bachelor.
You’re solving mysteries that stump the cops.
You sass them back. You’re flip-haired and eagle-eyed.
You’re a daredevil detective on the trail of a breathtaking
escape. She fooled you once and won’t again.
THE FOOTPRINTS IN THE FLOWERBEDS
You’re peering in her windows. You’re watching
as she hides the proof beneath the sink,
as she scrubs her hands with lye. She splashes bleach
across the tile. You’re watching as she runs
the bath. You watch. She’s wasp-waisted
and flaxen-haired. You’re not the better sister.
You’re no one’s good-time gal. You’re a bayou,
a river caught fire. You’re armed with flashlight
and revolver. You’re casing the estate.
Ned will get you for your date at four. He’s late.
THE MYSTERY OF THE WOODEN LADY
She’s a cocktail dress and you’re day-old rye.
You find a blond hair on the sofa bed,
stockings in the spare room. You come home late
one night and find your house lit like a birthday.
You tiptoe to the window, your skirt’s hem
catching on the hedges. She’s in your house.
She’s dancing slow with fickle Ned. She laughs
at all his jokes. Now you’re a pincushion.
You’re the sulfur smell of rotten eggs. You do
the only thing you can. You run.
THE CLUE IN THE BREAKFAST NOOK
You run home to River Heights. You bolt the door.
You’re a sure shot, an expert swimmer,
a gourmet cook. You bake birthday cakes
and ice them all with arsenic. You learn to knit.
You believe in the jinx. You won’t say his name,
won’t look at the phone. She’s a damsel
in dishwashing gloves. She’s at your kitchen table,
sugaring her tea. Ned’s a lost sock.
She smiles your smile and wears his jacket.
She hums. You’re gimlet-eyed. You’re losing steam.
THE SECRET LOST AT SEA
This time you’re the belle of Miami Beach.
You’re busting up a gang of smugglers.
You drink rum and dance all night. You learn
to surf. A strange man licks the saltwater
from your hair. The smugglers are setting sail
for Cuba. You’re an inside job. You’re on their tail.
There’s a girl here dressed as you. You surprise her
on the ship’s back stairs. Now the jig is up.
You’re found out, tied up, left to drown.
You tapdance SOS against the cabin’s roof.
THE CASE OF THE DISAPPEARING HUSBANDS
You’re on vacation in the snow-stunned Alps
when the innkeeper comes to you for help.
He’s getting threats from a dark-wigged woman
who claims that she’s your twin. You’re snowed in.
He tells you all the town’s most handsome men
