My sister is my memory.
Don’t you remember? She says.
And I do.
June bugs tied to a string.
Asphalt iridescent with summer heat.
A slick copperhead in the creek bed, interrupted midfeast.
The thick smell of honeysuckle.
When the men have lined up in their pajamas,
we will climb back into our twin beds.
Conspiring to stay awake.
Don’t you remember? She will say.
And I will.