my cousin

has turned away, a curve of blonde hair across his red t-shirt, 

enveloped in the poor quality fabrics of the eighties and me 



sparked with purple sequinned leotard, hair pinched into a ponytail. 

We have no real words, just kiddish arms wrapped around 



each other, one eye to the camera and one to the huddle of parents 

watching, their ciphered faces infused with the obscurities 



of grown ups, appetizers perched on toothpicks, glasses clinking 

across the table. He mirrors my iris, and we look to the flash 



at the edge of our vision, to the cartoons on the television, but still 

somehow that cool lonely feeling of leaning over a wide bridge, 



our palms gripping the rails.

© Christine McNair