When We Were Young

I was always the darker one,
dusky as a gypsy my Granny said,
with cat-colored eyes,
legs longer than was good for me,
always bruised from climbing trees,

my sister, china eyed,
skin paler than any moon -
smooth as the jazz
our parents played late at night
after we'd gone to bed.

I saw them once
moving slowly into each other
against the pale August night,
his dark hand on her shoulder,
her laughter, the brightest sound
I have ever known,
sailing up and over
lighting every candle in the room.

First appeared in A Wild Region (Moon Tide Press).