Silver

The sandals I stole from Kmart.
The lighter you used on the ivy,

the dumpster. The padlock on the
refrigerator after Sara's fight with

Mom. The polish Sara dabbed
on her nails, and Mom's seashells

in the top shelf basket. The pit bull's
collar as he dove against his chain, little

grunts, trying to get at us, our arms full
of oranges. Your hair, after she sprayed

it with sparkles for the fourth of July party.
The life guard's capped tooth as he lifted

you from the pool. The rings clotting your
fingers as they tapped and tapped. The sun

after you dared me to stare for a full minute,
the shining hole left in everything after.

At the Temple of Last Chance


Sun glitters as slick
as new nail polish
on the shot glass prizes,
the wet upper lip
of the man who hands
her another five ping-pong
balls for fifty cents.

She barely misses
the fishbowl in the middle
of all the fishbowls,
the red and blue-finned
fish sideways and half-boiled,
the bowls bulging
like tired eyes.

He doesn't watch
her lose, tips his chin
toward the pinkly glowing
Ferris wheel, squinting
as if the light were some
kind of gimmick
he has yet to figure out.