My sister gives me a cigarette,
says I don’t even have to
inhale. I blow out a cloud of
another world, take it
back into my mouth. She doesn’t
know she’ll soon tear up
her knee, marry a man
it will be smart to fear,
doesn’t see herself calling
our father from a gas station
with only her purse and pajamas.
I don’t yet feel the pull I will toward the wrong
kind of love, the demons
my pastor will try to drive out,
or the babies I’ll birth, two slipping from me
just slivers of themselves. We watch
my mother across the pasture,
pinning our clothes to the line. She doesn’t
look up to see our legs dangle,
our fingers move to our lips,
looking for what the world will offer
ready to answer with hunger.