Tall. Leggy. Almost all legs. Dear God.
She sang “Skip to My Lou” and “Tippecanoe”—
old songs she shouldn’t have known, but did.
She pinned my boyish heart for the
three count. See, sometimes losers win.
We both had older brothers, and both
brothers ran off to war. Only mine came home.
She called him Diddle Diddle Dumplin,
her brother John. I held her as she cried.
Still tall. Still leggy. Almost all legs.
She still sings, but not those old songs.
I’ve heard “Talks to Angels” when she
loses herself in something, sometimes me.
I watch her as she sleeps and thank God
losers win. Still, the grenade that went off
in that girl’s heart left a hole that’s never
healed, never closed. Healing. Closure.
New words. Fool’s words. We know better.