My sister empties drawers, boxes, plastic
containers, jewelry cases, a backpack, a purse.
With each emptying she calls out instructions
for the things inside: put those over there,
by the window, on the dresser, by the door.
All morning the two of us work to turn
a small bedroom into a bazaar. I ache to hug
her but she keeps moving, keeps turning
her face away, so I lay things out as I’m told:
hoop earrings, chain necklaces, a miniskirt,
leather wristband with studs, striped overalls,
socks, T-shirts, Doc Martens, red Chucks.
Before we are finished, girls begin to arrive
with bags and boxes, moving down the hall
to a room they know well, voices church soft,
eyes cast down as if in shyness, and my sister
calls each by their name, urges them to take take
please, and oh that would look so good on you
and she would love you to have that, I know
and I know there is nothing I can say to help
her through this but I am here in the room
where we are breathing the same air so when
she lifts a clear plastic bag from inside a box
and holds it up to a light between us, our eyes
meet as we take in the coiled lock of hair,
still soft, still blonde, still in a pony tail,
one end tied with ribbon.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 27, Issue 3.
Caroline Barnes is a writer and editor in Silver Spring, Maryland. She has published in Rattle, Rhino Poetry, The Baltimore Review, Unbroken Journal, American Journal of Poetry, Comstock Review, Dappled Things, and elsewhere. Her poem “Portrait of My Father as a Young Doctor” was selected as a finalist in Rhino Poetry Founders’ Contest in 2024. She received an Independent Artists Award from the Maryland State Arts Council in 2022 and is currently at work on her first poetry collection.
See all items about Caroline Barnes
