My best friend lived in a pale pink house
the color of fallen peonies in birdbath water.
She was an only child. Her mom let her line
her eyes with raven’s eye black
& wear shimmery gold eyeshadow from Kmart.

She was a Linda, too & for an entire summer
we fused—middle school twins bantering
about boys. We’d crawl under her sleek sateen
bedspread, which was splashed with lilac clusters,
white roses & a ruffled skirt at the bottom.

Each clutched a hand on a Motorola transistor
& we’d fall asleep with them squashed under
our pillows as they crackled
with Motown & Sonny & Cher. We got
tipsy from cheap whiskey her dad

stashed in his sock drawer & after that
my mom never let me go over again.
Freshman year came. No classes
together. She started going with a greaser
& I hooked up with a long-haired

English nerd who read Whitman & Baldwin.
Decades later, I still have an expansive palette
of sparkle shadows, a fondness for ruffles.
Every once in a while I long to grab a Motorola
in one hand, jigger of whiskey in the other.