By Michele Reimer

My grinning sister rode up the coast
during Christmas, just to share a pack
of Marlboros and tell me about

fucking. Have you ever made love on
a table? Over a sofa? Spread on
the hood of mom’s car? She smiles

slyly. Try it, she advertises. It’s
good. Her eyes burn, satisfied,
and now I’m a conspirator

in her new lethal methods. I can’t
even nod. How’s high school, she asks,
when she kisses my cheek to leave

I see a hairy lover sweating for her
somewhere, solitary in the dark

Later, I can’t remember anything
but a grade school play, summers ago
in which a kangaroo squeaked out

–on the good ship lollypop! Offering suckers
to the audience. My grandmother sat in the front,
smile big, clapping slowly, hands

brought gracefully together
like a blessing. The excited
kangaroo leaps happily into our grandmother’s

lap kissing her quickly,
the front pouch sagging from emptiness,
asking about baby kangaroos,

pouches, bodies, and things to come

by Omar Matias