Waves of sunlight
reflect on our skin,
—or off our sweat—
the second layer,
like a steamed onion.

You grin at me slightly,
hot from play,
cheeks ruddy
as red balloons,
and I laugh,
because you look
close to bursting.

You can smile,
because I know
my face is redder.

Elbow to
elbow we connect,
our foreheads
bending downwards
—dandelions—
ponytails swaying,
with our chuckles.

My limbs are blistered,
sore from lack of use.
But I know you feel fine.
Your brown skin,
russet potatoes,
are strong and tempered
beside my
white and slippery
spaghetti.

I should not laugh.
For who would win
in a battle of
potatoes
and spaghetti?

What,
I sometimes wonder,
would we do
if we
were the same,
two cuttings from one
mold, same clay?

Perhaps, I think,
we’d be
arm to arm
shoulder to shoulder
like a good puzzle,
our hair flowing freely
backs doubled as
we laughed.

And a light fog
would soften the sun,
no longer heat,
but warmth.