Midge called to say she’s sorry about Lucy.
Knows, she said, I loved Lucy like a sister
What’s a sister?
When I hug Midge, she stands like ice tongs, arms at her sides.
Who could blame her. How could she know I forgive her.
Because what did my parents need her for. They had me.
Midge. Midget. Midgette.
I hate my sister
And still Lucy’s long, low voice on the so-called answering machine.
Red Spanish shawl she brought back from her honeymoon.