Cousins

Cousins

Mila.

Her hands are

two sea stars tinged pink,

smooth and young against

a crinkly cotton sea,

doughy legs standing

wobbly over the waves.

The comforter tracing

movement,

feet feeling for the divots in

her mother’s mattress.

Wheezy hellos

escape rows of spaced

pearl-teeth that pushed through

rosy gums.

Jacek is slim,

his white-blonde hair

lifting like downy clouds with

every bounce,

the slam of his feet against sheets.

When he raises the plastic sword

over his head,

throaty giggles pour into the waning light;

Mila’s warm body is pressed

between me and a pillow,

her teeth brushing my forehead,

my hands in her sandy hair.

Jacek collapses next to us

and reaches lanky arms around my neck,

gently, like a rush of humid air.

I think about innocence,

these two luminous figures who have not yet felt

the sting of saltwater drying out eyes

or bruises collecting near nose bridges,

only fleece beneath wrinkly feet,

yellow light catching

 on soft skin.