Fallout (Crank 3)

with cheeks like stark coastal

cliffs and hollow blue eyes, framed

with drifts of mink-colored hair.

I don’t look very much like her.

My hair curls, auburn, around

a full, heart-shaped face, and

my eyes are brown. Or, to be

more creative, burnt umber. Nothing

like hers, so maybe I’m mistaken

about her identity. Is she my mother?

Is she the one who christened me

Autumn Rose Shepherd? Pretty

name. Wish I could live up to it.

AUNT CORA INSISTS

I am pretty. But Aunt Cora

is a one-woman cheering section.

Thank goodness the grandstands

aren’t completely empty.

I’m kind of a lone wolf, except

for Cherie, and she’s what you

might call a part-time friend.

We hang out sometimes, but

only if she’s got nothing better

going on. Meaning no ballet recitals

or play rehearsals or guy-of-the-day

to distract her from those.

But Aunt Cora is always there,

someone I can count on, through

chowder or broth, as Grandfather says.

Old Texas talk for “thick or thin.”