O sister on the other side
of the mirror, all sass and vinegar.
Galaxy of lace and petticoats
and pretty things swept under
the radar. You are a vintage
ditty, hiding some unhinged woman—
All of her broken intent snapped into
our mother’s satin purse. Imagine a word
before it was born—yolk of doc.
Imagine musical notes on a staff
being crushed into a pile of dirt.
Your head is a lunch counter,
too many mouths talking at once.
Here’s the thing, you can be eaten
alive by anything. The record player