Thirteen Years
By Erin Moure


I am in a daydream of my uncle,
his shirt out at his daughter's wedding,
white scoop of the shirttail bobbing
on the dance floor & him in it, no,
his drunk friend pawing, me it was
his shirt dangling,
I forgot this
my youngest cousin in his dress pants downing straight whisky,
& me too, tying tin cans to his sister's car.
The sour taste of it. Drink this, he said.

I am wondering how we live at all
or if we do.
The puppy we grew up with came from the same uncles' farm.
His shirt-tail beneath his suit jacket, dancing.
The friend of the family touching my new chest.
They told me not to say so.
I'll drive you to the motel, he said, his breath close.
No. Be nice to him, they said, & waved me off from the table.
I was so scared.
Everyone had been drinking. Including me. Thirteen years old.
Who the hell did my cousin marry.
I tell you.
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shoulda coulda woulda
take me there
   jenny says   you don't say   snapshot
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