French doors, curtains, panes of glass.
Small, we slept together in one room.
Trees in windows, screened for gnats.
This puppet-staging looked like home.
From greenish scrim, a face stared back.
We prayed for help with folded hands.
You kicked at night, from bunk to bunk.
Our clothes played doctor on the floor.
If Pinky Lee is dead, will we die too?
Do checkered vests turn us into twins?
You crying, Jack? Lonely in your box?
The day’s wonders, clotting on our lips.