Her father jokes
all through supper,
calls her
his frumpy pie;

her sister giggles,
the slim one
with the beauty
found in bottles

and jars.
Elaine knows
she's frumpy,
knows she lacks

her sister's looks,
her sister’s flair,
the smoothness
of her sister's hair.

She eats slow,
in deep thought,
nibbling not eating,
her mother says,

her voice whining
over the table
towards her
like nuclear fallout

of dull dust.  
She daren't tell them
John had kissed her lips
nor where his hand

had sort to go;
she stopped him,
but didn't want to,
though.