Then your sister turns 16, and can strike the ball
across the tennis court – harder
than your parents could ever strike
either of you. Her body rears up
like a horse who knows it can leap the fence.
You see it’s true. You see it when her feet churn
the clay surface of the court, and the muscles of
her thighs shake like a tremor in the earth, like
a hand reaching up to stop another hand.
When she cuts her braid, you see her
wearing the skin of a horse beneath her clothes.
She begins to appear in your dreams,
summoned like an unfulfilled wish, pacing
the same length of fence, showing you where
the ground slopes, and the one rail
is just low enough.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 14, Issue 1.