Girl, I— - Meghan Malachi

Hope you never get too old 
to hold my hand as you do
when we walk, anywhere, 
side by side. Let’s rejoice
in the sweet gourmand of the 
perfume you scavenge my 
closet for, in the mint musk
of the tea tree oil I lift from
your bathroom counter. 
Let’s rejoice in the shared 
shame of our late day glow. 
Reconvene for gossip after 
we’ve had our showers. 
With fast hands you clip my
webbing cuticles, bind my 
heavy breast with patches
of tape, crochet 
new shapes to life, creep 
through the bedroom
door to gift me a light pink
star of yarn after a long day
at work. I will be years
cackling through your insults,
sharp and beautiful as your
candy red acrylics scratching 
at my palm’s itch. Girl, 
I hope that even in old age,
there will be no cupping of
shoulders or linking of
elbows, but a hand in a 
hand, fingers bolted sweatily
to knuckles.