WHAT DWAYNE REMEMBERS ABOUT HIS DEAD SISTER, DIVINE
She lay in mahogany.
Summer sun turned her the hue of a Hall’s drop.
He bought her the magazine
She promised no one would die in her poems.
No one told him she was dead.
He said it was snowing up north.
She said “up north” was very vague.
She said snow was her favorite season.
He looked for her in winter.
He called her gold digger.
She said she was a crack smoker.
She said she only opened from the top.
She said she doesn’t know why she never said no.
She said effortless childhoods made for boring poetry.
She said a town is skin you’ll never shed.
She said the hotel was haunted.
He said we all are haunted.
She said what can I do to stop from aging?
He said nothing.
He said he was sorry for hating her.
She said it was too late.
from Rattle #71, Spring 2021
Yvonne Amey: “This poem was written last winter after visiting my hometown in western Maryland. It’s a place I return to often, literally and on paper. I find that home, all my folks and the stories we share, thankfully, is skin I will never completely shed.”