Across the back in pencil: Mary Lee, Doris,
Ruby, Jean, Mary Jo and Jewel. They are
bunched together, a gaggle of girls, a clutch
of chicks (Ruby would forgive this line, grinning,
admonishing only with a slow No! shake of head).

.

At a place veiled from memory along
a dirt road at woods edge, they had paused,
in summer, probably on Sunday after church
to again reaffirm their sisterhood; to create
a memento of time and lines I can’t put down.

On a low stone wall or a girlfriend’s lap,
each sits tilting to center to tighten the shot.
Three girl’s left arms flow in sensual repetition
to clasp a sister knee.  Their hands and arms fall
loosely draped like their worn cotton dresses

to waists, shoulders, arms, laps and legs;
a collage of languid limbs and flesh demure,
but freed, no Old Master could better.
Legs, closed or crossed, are bare to the knees;
their feet, bare too, splay at liberty in dust.

Each girl, coerced early to womanhood by war,
work and absent boys, is luminous in naiveté.
There is no glint of doubt in any eye; all dare
with unselfconscious grins the viewer to rip
this moment away; to dare tell their fortunes.