by Isabelle Doyle
After she is gone, I go to the deli
where we held thin hands. Sliced ham,
cheddar, soda cans, swiss cheese
turn their holy faces to me.
They are about the loss of her.
I loved her old body in her red coat.
I loved her sugar shoulders.
I loved the shape of her, the mouth of her.
I was a giant when I held her tiny body,
when I closed the blue wounds of her eyes.
Every year she was smaller.
We ate artichoke hearts in her kitchen,
her seven-year shattering,
her breathing song of cinnamon.
We used to sleep like two soup spoons.
I used to put my arm around her,
lean my dark head on her shoulder.
I could sip her when she aged
into water. We would put the radio on,
open windows, stand still in the room
like we were stuck in spines of cherry trees,
the voices reaching our bodies perfectly.
Isabelle Doyle is a freshman at Brown University. Her poems have appeared in literary magazines such as Cargoes, Triangle, The Blue Pencil Online, The Round, and Clerestory. She is studying writing.