Sister Grue

Jennifer Crow
 

 

Beneath the surface
in a capillary tangle,
your secrets run
to the ends of your island soul.

Blood calls blood—
and what makes us sisters
makes us hungry.

The edges of our memories
fit together like shards of glass:
the jagged bits grind,
we rub the dust in our eyes
and weep red dreams.

Sister mine, sister grue,
hold my hand in the darkness
and let me sip
tales from your fingers,
stories that no one else dares tell

 

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