Of two sisters only one is necessary, our mother says.
She braids a cluster of birthroot through the creasing of Cerisa’s bun.
I watch them, shelling almonds into a bucket between our beds
piled with atlas quilts and brass footing. Each pillow a clean accordion.
She braids a cluster of birthroot through the creasing of Cerisa’s bun
and asks us which. Myrrh or white bean oil for our breasts
piled with atlas quilts. Brass footing, each pillow a clean accordion
ready to unfold. This will be our second test.
She asks us which. Myrrh or white bean oil for our breasts.
In the morning if no veins collapse I will be fertile this year. Cuisses
ready to unfold. This will be our second test.
I know my own strength. The nuts come apart in pieces.
In the morning if no veins collapse, I will be fertile this year. Cuisses
and coxal bone beneath the king’s left hand. Last fall
I knew my own strength. The nuts came apart in pieces.
What I mean to say is there was no child after. All
her coxal bone beneath the king’s left hand. Last fall
I watched them, shelling almonds into a bucket between our beds.
What I mean to say is there was no child. After all,
of two sisters only one is necessary, our mother said.
___
Sarah Crossland is a Poetry MFA candidate at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, where she teaches creative writing and serves as the Managing Editor of Devil’s Lake. Her website is www.sarahcrossland.com.
Monday, March 26th, 2012 1:17 pm
Categories: Issue 5.4, Poetry
