In 1960s Kodachrome
three sisters less than three years apart
sit cross-legged, un-self conscious
hair tousled, streaked with sun,
play clothes strewn across their chests.
One squints, elbows on knees. Another
shades her face. A third straight-backed,
blue eyes wide with surprise.
Three sisters tossed in the air by their father
scamper into a bubbled bath and crowd the tub.
One by one hoisted by their mother
toweled dry, hair fragrant with soap.
Three girls giggle into gowns
before supper and stories.
Sisters tucked in one bed loose-limbed,
shallow breaths curl from each other to dream,
dreams that one day will pull them apart.
Page 9, An Eclipse and a Butcher. Contest winner and cash award from Poetry Society of South Carolina.