Last sister
Least and last and now, as
the last illness comes and she takes to bed, largest. The only one with lungs still breathing
faintly on this earth. The rest
in their sequence, like birth spaces, dead, bones striving for equality reaching dust as if a race and tape
measured them still. A stile
she will have to cross alone or a door with the handle too high tiptoeing to reach the windowsill
and see in through the glass
but not out. Until then she holds them as an hourglass holds sand and a rose holds scent.
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