At most six, expressionless, back perfectly straight,
Her fingers loosely curled, fidgeting with the sheer white tulle
That veils her thighs, while the older girl
Maybe eight or nine pulls at the white lycra below the littler one’s
Neck and applies—is it
Eye makeup? rouge? the younger girl
Offering her cheek, her eyes straying to the bull-dog at the right edge
Or into the shadows that touch the beat-up Chevy pick-up.
The older girl in profile, eyes fixed on her work—
And neither looks at the blurry woods or the next open space.
Heels planted in the truck’s shadow, her toes, her white ruffled cotton dress and blonde hair
Splashed with light, and behind her, within reach, on the bumper, a lipstick, two compacts,
And, scattered in the darkened grass, a metal box full of combs,
An empty plastic bag, a mirror, a soft-bristled brush,
Other compacts, tins, tubes.
She is already so composed, this older one, back arched, hair pulled back,
Torso and head held just so: behind, the field,
Steady, slender wrist held across—