My friend Katy is a partner in the firm.
She struts statuesque in box heel shoes,
three-button power suits, a spiky razor-cut.
My eyes are drawn to a row of small tooth
viper wounds: faint puckers in the fleshy web
between thumb and forefinger. This is the place
where brother Kurt drove deep a three-tined fork
all those years ago.
With a chuckle and shrug,
she has forgotten his reason.

Katy’s mama called Brownie “Kurt’s dog,”
and Kurt rode a chrome-fendered two-wheeler
while Katy watched from the porch swing.
His table manners set aside, he enjoyed the
thicker slice of pie
all those years ago.
With a furrow and slump,
she still wonders why.

01/25/2005

Author's Note: …a drop of feminism, a dash of sibling rivalry, and a big dollop of that "thing" that prevents us from getting past those early injustices…

Posted on 01/25/2005
Copyright © 2026 David Hill