Lucy

I like the way

Mom and Dad

fight calm and cool

through clenched teeth at Granny’s,

not hot and loud

like at home.

I love the sport of

chasing down

the ice-cream truck

anytime its upbeat jingle hits our ears.

There is no Mister Softee in PA,

definitely no

cute older neighbor boys

like the ones playing

street hockey on Granny’s block.

But my favorite part

of New York

is my cousin.

Lucy, four years older and

massively cooler.

Our lives

so far apart, yet

this must be what

having the best big sister ever is like. And I love it.

Bitingly funny,

she can tell a story so well

it makes you wish

you were there for the adventure,

even if you were.

Lucy is always banker for Monopoly,

inventing random loophole rules

that play to her favor,

but she’s generous with

her coveted collection

of Mad magazines.

She makes up contests

to see who can eat

the most at breakfast.

She’s stuffing slices of toast

while I spoon bowls of Freakies with milk.

I copy her thick black eyeliner

beg to get my ears pierced

to wear feather earrings like her.

Faithfully mimic

her strong hand gestures and

heavy New Yawk accent.

She is fun fun fun

with short blond hair that flips

and a smile that catches.

Maybe she’d see how pretty

if my mom wasn’t

wrecking the curve.

Lucy is unhappy with her body,

the family curse

at her back

drinks Tab

by the liter.

Her size fluctuates between visits,

but her self-loathing

stays the same.