gift shop

when it rained in chincoteague 
we would always walk in town
& decide how we wanted to remember
escaping our pennsylvania ourselves. 
on vacation, we were opalescent. 
rainbows of our flesh glinting
from the light of the peach ring sun
even as it shone behind grey clouds.
when i was younger,
i lied & told everyone in school
that we had a house in chincoteague.
i think a part of that was true.
i had built a little house
by the water 
between my ribs. lowered
a crab box into the channel. 
i was a girl or i was almost a girl
or i was not a girl at all.
saltwater taffy. toy horses.
a wrack of polka dot headbands.
my favorite shops
were the dust-veiled ones
where a man behind the counter
talked to birds that were not there.
in one we found a sting ray necklace. in
another we played mancala
& held up kites
as if we knew how to fly them.
we only ever got one or two trinkets.
they never felt like enough.
how do you take a whole 
imagined life back with you to the house
of grapes & dirt?
there is nothing hungrier than a gift shop. 
desperate. a forced smile
inside a disposable camera. 
we roamed the aisles. shook snow globes.
saw our reflections in the wide windows.
all the ways you can say,
"do not take me home." 
we waited for the sun to emerge
dazzling & wearing everything i wanted
but could not keep.