My cousin and I roamed the boardwalk.
Tourists.
Not many would have guessed
that we're related:
She, round edges and yellow curls,
blue eyes laughing at the way
her hips gently spilled out of her jeans;
I, thin, with sloping angles,
long fingers pulling at copper braids.
Still, with the way our sunburns
complemented each other,
or the way she plucked blossoms
off the trees to plant behind my ears,
we might have been sisters.
Our mothers are sisters;
my aunt watched as my cousin and I
collided with the Gulf of Mexico,
the ocean tugging at the straps of our swimsuits.
I floated, eyes closed against the sunset,
feeling the tide lick at my peeling shoulders.
She dove, surfacing ten feet away,
two hermit crabs clutched in her sandy fingers.
We said goodbye at the airport,
exchanging bags of seashells,
hibiscus petals wilting in our hair.
