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I woke to the
voice of my dead sister.
She was
cold, she said, colder than she’d
ever been in
life. Eight years dead – freed
from being
used by our father, or so
I thought
until I heard her.
You by the
door,
ready to leave
this poem, stay with me.
Here I am
demanding that you listen
as she asks
that I listen from beyond.
She had no
choice. (That is living death, isn’t it?)
Antarctica,
the place without choice.
Why,
why
are you still down there?
I call,
Haven’t you been reborn by now?
Turned back to
a blonde eight-year old
tumbling down
a hill . . . .
Oh reader,
excuse me. I
have presumed on you
once again.
Can’t you help me
heave the
heavy lid of this box
and lift the
blanket out, then help me
toss it down
to the end of the world? |