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 secretly
trail Dougie Esposito down Main Street as he

trudged to first shift at Jezebel’s Diner. We’d crawl under
Linda’s sleek sateen bedspread, which was splashed

with lilac clusters, white
roses & a ruffle

skirt at the bottom. Each had a hand
held Motorola transistor; we’d fall

asleep with them smushed 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 back. Freshman

year came. No classes
together. She started going

with a greaser & I crushed on the long
haired brainiac who read Whitman

& the Tao Te Ching. Decades later, I have an expansive
palette of sparkle shadows, a fondness

for ruffles on pillows, Every once
in a while I see a pink

house & crave a sip
of Old Crow, just enough

to burn when swallowed. I remember
that summer before social rankings or high

school pecking orders, I rush home to crawl
under the covers & turn the volume up to 10.