Clara and I wandered

the store on our own

she on the other side I on

my own side

I put on the blue wig

ran to Clara and posed like

a dancer

you look stupid

she said

you’re gonna get lice

she was in one of her moods again

maybe because this was

our first time

in a wig store

maybe because this would be her

first wig

I never know what mood

Clara will be in

it’s not like

walking on eggshells

more like

walking on a field of grenades with

snowshoes on

the woman came back

with a bobbed wig all black

as black as a black hole

Clara tried the wig on

my mom’s nose covered with

sweat beads

her face flushed

the sales lady’s eyes two holes

voices from a TV somewhere

the lady explained how to

care for the wig

how to put it on

I moved towards the front of

the store waited for

the cash register to

open then close

that’s expensive

I heard my mom say

Pin by Pin

The new wig had

worked well

it almost

looked like my sister’s hair

just a little thicker and blacker

each morning

she put it on her head like a

motorcycle helmet

she pinned the lining of the wig

into her real hair

what was left of it at least

it was a slow process

pin by

pin

sometimes I glanced at her as I walked

by the bathroom careful not to

turn my head

pins in her mouth

hand stabbing black little

sticks into her head

no more swimming

no more roller coasters

no more convertibles

no more

hanging upside down

no more

sky

diving

The Missing Wig

Clara goes shopping for

more berets I wonder if

she’ll get another wig or if

she likes being French

I wonder if

she will take French class

I wonder

why she doesn’t get a blond

wig instead

she can pretend she’s

an American

a real American

a white American

I begin to wonder

where her wig went

everyone else seems to

have forgotten

about it I want to know where

it is I begin to wonder who

took it

I miss the wig

its smells

its thick blob dripping in

the wind while drying

I want the wig back

it covers

up everything

so well

Stories

I don’t get wigs or hats or

berets

instead my mom gives me

a new diary

it’s silver and says

Perfume on the cover

each page smells like

what I imagine

a pretty French

woman’s

neck might smell like

I can almost see

my reflection on the cover

sometimes I play with Barbies

make up stories and write

them down in my new diary

I can’t believe

you still play with Barbies

Clara says

I tell her there’s no one

else to play with

she just

looks at me

shrugs

goes back to her room

when I play with my Barbies

someone

always loves

someone who

doesn’t love them back