My sister speaks oily.
Brown.
Cooked.
I fried her up near the New Year.
A harsh time of the year,
for me.
Snow chills the others,
but, me,
I am the snow.
Piling up in their driveways.
Icing porch steps.
Breaking China ties,
porcelain
life.
The mailbox glares at me
every time
I visit. Empty handed.
I write every day. Letters to myself.
Memories.
Fear.
Hurt.
Shame.
Never has my hand thought to
write
to Idaho.
To a fried potato.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 