Polly Song   Paula? Never. You were born to be Polly, only Polly, maybe Polly Rose . . . last names come and go, no matter — we all look like ourselves by now, by fifty. Close your eyes. Casper. 1961. I remember you barely able to sit on the floor, and I’m there beside you, my sister, first memory . . . before I’d written even one word, before Valley Road parted us, before you surpassed me and everyone else on the tennis court, sowed all those crazy wild oats, then took your stand rightfully as mother, woman among ladies, wife. Let’s all sing the Polly Song.                                                for my sister     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont September 2010