Neighbors

mary

One of   just two kids on our street, I am coerced

into unenthusiastic doll-playing. Her room

is pink, the carpet tufted. The walls are lined

with pageant trophies—engraved metal plaques

and waving plastic gold girls. A small tiara.

Any two dolls can kiss, they just have to be dolls,

she says, laying one on another. Their long

nylon hair tangling. On her dresser,

a picture of her mother. She died when I was three,

she tells me, though she’s told me before.

She ignores her stepmom’s calling on our way

out the door. We ride our bikes through

the neighborhood, loose curls falling behind her.

Our tire tracks crisscrossing in the dirt.

  dr. thomas

He brings us gifts from his garden: tiger lilies

and a basket of zucchini blossoms, a note

for my mother—Thanks for watching the house

last week. By day he teaches French at the college

in town, the man he lives with is a painter.

They park their cars in the garage—for security.

In the evening light he wears a big straw hat,

sings hymns while he tends to their rows

of flowers, creeping squash tendrils, peonies

holding court against the house’s washed brick.

Mom finds a recipe to fry the blossoms

in a light batter with goat cheese. We drive by

in her red Suburban. He looks up from his work,

taking off a glove, waving with his real hand.