Letter to My Older Sister 5

dear Georgiana,

trying to do something to shake off this

post holiday boohoohoo.

as you know, i've been poking at baby sis again.

she looks like

strawberry shortcake, but watch the hardtack

underneath. it'll

crack your teeth. it would be victory over

raging hearts

should we manage to become friends. but that's

going to take more

vital stuff than i have to bleed. put that on hold.

besieged and collapsing under the weight

of my gift. love

as i live it seems more like Mercurochrome

than anything else

i can conjure up. it lo0oks so pretty and red,

and smells of a balmy

coolness when you uncap the little applicator.

​​​​​​​ but swab it on an

​​​​​​​ open sore and you nearly die under the stabbing

​​​​​​​ burn. recovery

​​​​​​​ leaves a vague tenderness and an India ink-red

​​​​​​​ splotch that'll

​​​​​​​ vanish between one scrubbing or another

​​​​​​​ Mama's favorite lipstick used to be a sultry

​​​​​​​ red violent

​​​​​​​ that segued into the hue of sangria when

​​​​​​​ applied to her

​​​​​​​ full rose-brown lips. i liked watching her

​​​​​​​ slick moves as

​​​​​​​ she studied her face over the dressing

​​​​​​​ table mirror, but

​​​​​​​ best was show she briskly slipped it

​​​​​​​ from her purse

​​​​​​​ while sitting in the car, cupping her compact

​​​​​​​ in one palm while

​​​​​​​ she uncapped the tube with a flick. One twist

​​​​​​​ of the brass

​​​​​​​ canister's butt, and the stick rose for duty

​​​​​​​ the pangs-n-thangs of girlhood are foremost on my

​​​​​​​ agenda of items suppressed.

​​​​​​​ they form the Barrier Reef of my consciousness

​​​​​​​ ​​​​​​​ like shipwrecked

​​​​​​​ swabbies, drunk with trauma, washed inland to

​​​​​​​ a grimmer death

​​​​​​​ against the shore where rent flesh, first red,

​​​​​​​ turns salt white