by Lyn Lifshin
my sister’s face,
a swollen pumpkin
of anger. I think
of the spring that
never was, how just
going to get paper
towels and ice
cream, we giggled,
away from the
sick room but by
the end of the year
weren’t talking.
My uncle, safe in
his coffin, waits
outside, waits in
blue Vermont
light. My sister
spits, “murderer,”
in the voice of
a stranger, a sad
girl who wants to
sue the stars,
grows another
layer of fat, a
barrier, a fence,
the way she cages
her cats and turtles.
Fat seals her
lips tight. “Do
you know what
this is,” my aunt
says after the
service, whispers,
“shit,” into my
ear and tho I’m
not exactly sure
what she means,
I know it’s true
*Lyn's website: http://www.lynlifshin.com/books.htm
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thumbs up! this poem should reprinted in next issue of that hermaphrodite cowboy beat madzine thing - for the next new spectacular issue printed in gold buddha leaf or christ-blood or, ah, well, cheap ink, side stapled no prestige but oh the knowledge spewin' hoi toidy and poi wheee doogies!! now there dat da poet or p is this poetess, this enchantuese, and the hair! Aye Caramba!!
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