Before the tenuous muslin of her marriage
had flickered away, before the piano,
 
one morning, you and I were becoming
in our mother’s favorite shoes. Left alone
 
in summer, the house emptied, our nightshirts
draped to our knees, we went to her closet:
 
open boxes, the pumps glossy and upright
as prizes in an auto show. You imitated her,
 
sauntering across the cream-colored carpet
until you fell. Then when I fell over you
 
we laughed until you pushed me off.
You looked and said, Do you sometimes
 
wanna go someplace else. I said, Where.
Then you stood up in your heels and practiced.