for Larry
 
My cousin and I thumb through
the family photograph albums
recalling happier times. As my aunt
peers over the back of the rocker,
my cousin, barely a year old, concern
stamped all over his freckled face,
sits holding a wrinkled infant wrapped
in a pink blanket, mouth open wide
like a baby bird begging for a worm.
All I wanted to do was protect you,
he says. I was the sister he never had
and he was better than a big brother.
But the first day of school, we are kittens
facing a pit bull when the third grader
in a giant’s body holds us hostage
on the sidewalk as we walk home
until my tiny aunt – worried when we
are late for supper - storms in like a tornado
and smacks the bully in the back of his head
with her purse, heavy as a hammer,
pounding him like a nail as he runs
down the street blubbering and bawling.
I giggle with glee, but my cousin cringes
because he knows his mother
has given the bully more ammunition
for his taunts. Sissy Boy. Your mama
has to fight your battles for you,
the bully shouts, but this time
he keeps his eyes peeled to make
sure my aunt is nowhere around.

Long neck ice cold beer
never broke my heart,
the corn-fed farm boy
mimics Luke Coombs
in the microphone,
while the brandy cheeked
barmaid whisks away
empty Corona bottles
in the crowded corner
where the tattooed blonde
and the big biceped bartender
down Jack Daniels shots
as her tow-headed toddler
sits strapped in a car seat
in the back seat of the Buick
in the sizzling summer sun.