Sisters

You’re getting older.

I can see it now

lying in your bed, my

reflection warped in

a makeshift drinking

glass. I can’t know how

many nights you’ve

cocooned in these

covers while my name

sputtered across

your phone screen.

Despite your clean

floors I worry I ruined

you, created some

kind of elongated

sin you’re still breathing

in, damaged you down

to your cells

with learned trauma

kicking and

screaming

in the passenger seat.

I haven’t lived

alone in so long I’d

forgotten what

it’s like:

small body

belly of the whale

more wine before

the thunderstorm.

featured in Carolina Muse Literary & Arts Magazine