Evelyn McHale

In school, Caroline had ankles like you,
though I realize the association
has less to do with the delicate drape of one leg over the other
but rather that she was the most likely
to be caught barefoot in class, getting comfortable,
ladylike in the way nature would want,
nursing abandoned baby squirrels back to health
and carrying Franzia bags
in her purse. She called them conches
as though she could play the tap — the mouth piece, the suckle —
and summon the animals of forest like Cinderella.

So I can't help but imagine she's you
sunk into the roof of the United Nation's limousine
like a hammock, swaddled like a fish in a net, mouth
still colored and parsed. Earlier you stood
on the observation deck, that 83rd floor
of the Empire State Building, felt the edifice billow
under your feet. Your skirt gasped for air.
Your eyebrows were regal and symmetrical.
You amused the laws of gravity, knew
they wouldn't betray you.