In two weeks, four people die,
two pairs in each place you call home,

all friends of friends of friends,
all under the age of twenty-two.

The only girl of the four danced
with your high school best friend,

one level higher than you could
ever reach, even though you danced

since you were two. You always hated
competition makeup, because it meant

you couldn’t cry, nor could you get
the sticky feeling off your skin

the next morning. On a summer day
by the corn maze, you swapped a secret,

a hug, with the first of two “little sisters”,
both of whom confided in you

that they share your attraction to two
genders. The week after the four,

you’re at a potluck with the second
sister, hugging, sharing glimpses

and giggles. That night, when the makeup
comes off, you finally feel Clean

& Clear; lather and rinse,
lather and rinse.