Already at 8, Zoe walks the runway
of her double bed. Hips twisting
something thrusting, while she flirts
with me through smiling eyes. She didn’t
learn it from me. I didn’t go near runways.
unless I was stuck on an airplane
waiting to take off. Except when I
paraded dutifully into Synagogue
for our annual high holiday pilgrimage
in the yellow dress my grandmother
kindly knitted for me. Puke Yellow.
Yellow was not my color. And I don’t look
good in puke, but nobody seemed
to notice. I hoped. I hoped I could distract
them with my smile. But it was a whole
lot of yellow to camouflage. And besides
I didn’t like dresses back then. But maybe
It was just the material. Knit dresses have
this way of hugging your body, that makes you
want to run for your life. Like Erin in 5th
grade who kept telling me over and over and over
that I was her best friend, until I thought
I would puke. I shut my mouth tight.
I was wearing a sweater my grandmother
had knit for me and I knew better than
to puke all over it.