Couples Only

At eleven she's a frame

of lengthening bones, long feet,

and straight dark hair that sways

when comets in her eyes

streak briefly toward a mirror.

She reads again the lack

of breast or softening curve.

Long, bony hands adjust

lank fall of jersey folds.

She watches while her sister

flashes on the ice,

flaunts proper curve and curl.

A man skates close; they spin.

The younger girl still waits,

then takes an offered hand.

And wind streams through her hair;

lights whirl and strobe the dark;

two hands clasp tightly, warmed.

Now suddenly the rink

lights up and pulls them back,

reveals him in its glare

—too short, too young for her.

Embarrassed, they drop hands

and glide apart.

Copyright 1986 Marian Jane Dickinson