Claire Corbeaux

You don’t even live there anymore

We used to sit inside rhododendron

And leave our legs dangling

I used to sit starving on your couch

That was falling apart; that stuck to our

thighs and smelled like vinyl

While you reheated leftovers all alone

Even though you were just eight at most

We used to hurl ourselves into the bright

green chasm in your backyard

And we would sometimes sleep under the stars

You were my sister and your sisters were my sisters

and I wonder now if you all are still

Do we presently belong to each other at all?

How do I

combat the flux

The way time races

Like how the water

Would flood across the barnacles

we used to scrape our toes on

Was it all a pipe dream? To happen upon

artificial sisters who lived and loved in an

island of their own?

Who used to dance across a neck in a

minivan to buy their eggs

Why did we come apart and why did you

Let us; why did I?

I wouldn’t recognize your kitchen now

It’s renovated and there’s only one fridge

Instead of the unusual two

And cabinets.

Claire Corbeaux is a senior English (literature) major at SUNY Geneseo. She enjoys talking about interdisciplinarity to anyone who will listen, explaining the plots of her favorite movies in great detail, and daydreaming about the Long Island Sound.