Somehow you make it back to bed, beneath
the patchwork hand-me-down bedspread
someone created then, to you, bequeathed —
a deceased girl’s generosity. Red
inheritance, patchwork heart, each night
a tug of war, in seams, you two might pull
apart, deprived of even candlelight,
the warmth of anything save moonlight, full
tonight, lunar eclipse. Quilt you pull back
gingerly just enough to slip inside
beside your sleeping sister, just the slack
remainders not even enough to hide
goosebumps a stranger left upon flushed skin.
You sleep warm, half covered, remembering him.
Kristin Garth is a Pushcart, Best of the Net & Rhysling nominated sonnet stalker. Her sonnets have stalked journals like Glass, Yes, Five:2:One, Luna Luna and more. She is the author of thirteen books of poetry including Pink Plastic House (Maverick Duck Press), Candy Cigarette Womanchild Noir (The Hedgehog Poetry Press), the forthcoming Flutter: Southern Gothic Fever Dream (TwistiT Press), The Meadow (APEP Publications) and Shut Your Eyes, Succubi (Maverick Duck Press). Follow her on Twitter at @lolaandjolie and visit her website.
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