With lips of grit and grenadine, she finds me
nested between paper walls weighing static.
The fever behind her eyes swells smooth and dense
like gums packed with gauze as we punch holes in morning silence,
It’s just radiation—needles and vomit churn
our stomachs—It’s never just radiation.
Empty pines seldom complain, but we hear them sigh
with snow in their ears, winter came too early.
The dog tracks sun across the carpet and we sit as sisters
swallowing years of silence in hours.
Created: Jul 10, 2010Document Media