Missing: 1 Sister – New Poem (Rough First Draft)

Missing: 1 Sister

The last time I saw you,

your fingers were stained

with beetroot.

 

You’d discovered the joy

of eating it raw, and had been

grating it into a bowl, with

sour cream and chives.

 

You wiped your fingers on

a white tea towel, transferring

spots of vivid purple.

 

You hugged me. I kissed

the top of your head,

your blonde roots. All

I could smell was almonds.

 

I remember when you first

had a fringe cut. I was fourteen,

you, eleven.

 

You said ‘I love it’ to the hairdresser,

but I caught your lip trembling.

 

 

You were as dangerous

as a cotton dinosaur

and constantly exploded

with compassion.

 

You were a woman proud

of her stretch marks.

They reminded you

of the happiest day of your life .

 

One time I asked what you’d

be if you could shape shift.

You said ‘a werewolf’

while pulling up your jumper

to feed your baby.

 

I was surprised.

I didn’t expect that.

 

We haven’t seen you for three months now.

Your baby has said his first word.

 

I haven’t washed the tea towel.

It hangs over the back

of a chair in your kitchen,

still creased still stained

with your purple fingerprints.

 

 

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