Annabelle
She is sitting in the yard, plucking dead grass
into a heap near her feet, mascara
streaking her cheeks.
She starts mumbling stuff about Mark and Mary,
about woods and moons, about
waiting in the Mini.
I’m wondering how I’m going to help her home
when Christopher appears, holding
out his hand.
We walk Stacey around the block three times,
making her gulp the cool air before
climbing her stairs.
At the top, her face clears and she says my name,
drawing out its three syllables like she is
remembering
Something from long ago, like maybe the time
she got a new puppy and we spent hours
playing with it
Or the day she got her first period and was so scared
that her sister would embarrass her by
telling her dad.
That day, we read the school pamphlet on reproduction
together, marvelling at all the changes
our bodies were going through
Deep down
in the most secret
of places.
She looks at Chris, and I wait for her to laugh
or say something mean, but she just nods
and steps inside
Leaving us on the sidewalk, moving close
to fill the space where Stacey’s
body once stood.