for Susanne
When we laugh, our mother’s womb
sing-songs our names with the bounce
of an old cartoon. When we laugh, our quiet
ancestors bewilder. We’ve always talked fast,
walked fast with the muscliest calves,
fuzzy upper lips, speediest tongues, our
lineage conscientious, sturdy, fidgety souls.
It wasn’t always easy. We used to swallow
each other’s air, see who could shrink faster. Argue
over who got how much, which kind of light
from our parents’ pinking grins. Now we whistle
in the dark. You dated that guy with the truck,
I dated that dude with the drum. Men who flattened
us. Now we’re round, wombs empty of the babies
they have born, skin benignly fetid, hair thinning
at our crowns, sprouting from our chins, husbands
untroubled by drooping jowls, boobs, bottoms.
We are not even that old, just old
enough. The world watches the waistlines
and hemlines and bylines of others and we
watch whatever we like. Who knew that someday
we’d be the same age as one another, though
you’ll always know me by my first voice,
one that called to you through flesh and fluid,
named you my sister before either of us
understood that word. Here we are,
open-mouthed and guffawing. Here
we are, crowfeet deepening with glee. Here
we are, such sweetness in old ladyhood,
each a mirror for the other’s feral joy.
