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.