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
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.