1.
Early morning when the shadows
are so long it feels like everything
is all pulled out of itself,
Rachel and I walk to the fields,
our long selves laid out ahead of us
for anyone to see.
Rachel likes to get behind me
so our two shadows look like one,
then she waves her arms, or makes horns
on my shadow head and grunts,
or puts her head on my shoulder
and makes me into some kind
of two-headed monster. Every time,
it makes me twist my face
in like a fist, then Rachel hops
around in front, walking and
skipping backwards the rest
of the way, watching my face,
—my face I try to keep for my own—
her dark eyes pecking at me
like a sharp little bird.
2.
Every noontime
when the sun
is exactly
over my head,
I stop
what I’m doing.
I stand
perfectly
straight.
I don’t
breathe.
I look
without
moving
a muscle
in my body
at the brightness
all around
my feet.
I don’t care
if my skin
blisters.
At such
moments,
almost,
I have no
sister.