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.
If I did not write, I would
have
been sympathy for
family.
If I did not write, they could have
cried on
their partner’s shoulders
about how they could have helped.
Or,
if they could have.
If I did not write,
a rope might not hang so loose;
a ground may not be hollow;
a sister
may miss another sister’s voice.
Instead,
I become ferocious.
Ravenous.
I let ink seep out from under
bitten fingernails to
stain swollen
pages of life.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 