This is wonderfully short novel, only better: it’s a poem.
By the bed in a cup the waiting water grows tepid, the medicine sleeping
in me like a watchdog. The air inside the room, cold & artificial.
Unable to warm, I feast on stars, picking from the constellations
my sister brought down to my side, calling in her loudest voice
for my head to settle. Getting ready for bed, I avoid turning off the bathroom light;
I do not want to recall, in the blue dreams, the night she lifted her
nightgown, posing nude
as a Miss America contestant.
We turn gray like the walls, gray like our hair, unconscious anymore
to emotions. I cannot remain living brightly and happy as she dies.
The foggy moon, and God’s last round of sheep, are full like ticks.
The days will soon grow larger & larger in aloneness
Stephanie Bryant Anderson lives and writes in Clarksville, TN. She edits Red Paint Hill…
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