June 5, 2017
By willabrosnihan BRONZE, Gloucester, Massachusetts
willabrosnihan BRONZE, Gloucester, Massachusetts
2 articles 0 photos 0 comments

Towel wrapped sister,

and her pale winter skin,
cherub shoulders ducking out of Renaissance fresco,
pinkened cheeks.

      They are reaching,
            pruned fingers that are at the tips,
                  the color of beach roses,
                        swallowed in fog.

                                                 My sister’s post-bath fingertips,
                                                                  turned to silk buds,
                                                                      swaying liltingly.
      atlantic wind sweeps inland with the sound of a cat sneezing.
                                        and grandmother always drives slow,
                Steering wheel resting below hands of marbled paper.
                                watching waves fold back into themselves,
                                                   crashing like they are feeling.
                                                                    foam and granite,
                                                             and white in sunshine.
                                                                              the brine.
The fall blooming fingers,
of towel wrapped sister,
lift the window shade by its white underbelly.
pinkened cheeks turned to cool glass,
lights flashing,
the colors of the USA,
of France,
of Britain,
Russia, Australia, Paraguay,
Liberia and both Koreas,
it is an ambulance.

for old Mrs. Greene,
a thousand flags flash.
         And once,
                    On a july night that smelled,
                    So softly of richness,
                                                       It was orange,
                                                       Shining from the tail lights,
                                                             that seemed brightest,
                                                     In a conglomeration of light,
                                                                            And streets,
Bright like fire, like fireworks, like hot embers laying on the coals                                                                                   of night,

                             And I looked from behind my window screen,
                                                            Behind my whirring fan,
              Seeing emergency-magma flowing and clumping in red,
                                                                             And orange,
                                                                   Beauty in disaster.


I watched and said,

I’m sorry.

I said it smiling,
Into a breeze smelling of summer.

And somewhere,
someone cried.

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