pseudonym aside
we didn’t recognize
our cousin
on the cover of Cosmo
that lay on the nest
like any other magazine
waiting to be picked up,
pressed open down its spine –
the gloss of it on our lips,
its blade-thin edges smooth
its smell in our nostrils
acrid, addictive
yet inviting
as virgin snow –
neither did we recognize
her heavier build
her ghostly rouge
those slubs in her fabric of speech
the childish tee-shirt
and short white socks
the only good fortune
neither did she
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