Two girls in spotted dresses,
brown hair shingled.
Look at our photos, Gran said,
we could be twins. Loose dentures
slapped wet. You’ve got my eyes.
On holidays I’d have to waltz
with her, the dance-floor spangled
by a mirrorball. My first job was
lugging boxes in the soap works.
Her hair blue-rinsed, set crisp,
my cheeks pink with shame,
I left school at twelve.
She smelled of Pond’s cold cream.
No point in university.
You could be a secretary.
Her powdery skin, marcasite ring
and plastic pearls. I was clever,
like you. Her navy dress,
her rhinestone brooch.
You take after me.
Brown spots on our hands,
our varicose veins.
The stout prow of our breasts.