Kleptomania III

Two decades later, my oldest sister

still worries about the photographs

taken in the grocery store breakroom.


The way the sweaty man’s eyes scanned

my mother’s body and told her she was

lucky—that we were all very lucky girls.


In another domain we are

wrist-punching the man’s glasses and

running for the door, we are


flinging open cash registers and

redistributing nametags. We are slicing

deli meat rapidly behind the counter


for our lunch. We are not standing

under fluorescence, choosing

whether to smile for the evidence


of our wanting too much at a time.

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