Cousin

Her words rang like spell chants—
felicity, wanderlust, opulent.
Her fingers unlocked piano keys, harp strings.
I thought her chopped dark hair
would lengthen, turn gold with the sound.

And I, a city girl in her wide-eyed fields,
knew nothing of leather and gilt books
or kingdoms created in sharp pine tree tents.

But as she cracked open the shepherd’s purse
and poured out seeds like wooden coins,
I knew I’d be the one to feel,
against brick walls and sweating leather interiors,
all that she would only read,
her sticky palm pressed to pulseless pages.