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.
Read more from Issue No. 22 or share on Facebook and Twitter.