Sisters

Originally published in nibble, No. 9

Summer in Charleston: my sister cruises
with a low left tire, no spare, swats
my hand if I try to change the radio station.

We lurch into a 24-hour service station
and the pump boy’s eyes cruise
over her suntanned skin, the sweat

collecting on her collarbone. I swat
flies, arch my back against our stationwagon,
beg her to buy me a Grape Crush.

As we cruise out of the station, I lick purple sweat off the cold can.