The women sit before a turkey,

baked for hours, always

counting the minutes,

tapping feet to a tune,

squeezed into hand-me-down

heels from sisters. Their faces

shouldn’t fade. Stars in the sky

that holiday. The light not

bright enough to see by, until

it is moistened.

I clip my sisters

out of the photograph, out

from headless bystanders.

The fabric scissors are sharp,

crisp

cut. I press

the shape to my skin like a tattoo.

Why would you want anything

to be permanent, they ask.

Acquaintances fall away

and I am obsessed with ends,

depths, the crumbs at the bottom

of the paper bag.  

Copyright © 2018 by Olena Jennings.