The first memory is sound—
sheetrock cracking,
my sister and you
bare-legged and seething,
speckled linoleum.
My sister rises to her feet,
leaves the house for good.
You coil your hair into a bun,
line your lips Claret Red,
litter the dresser
with crumpled kisses.
No wonder they had women’s names,
vast systems with rough edges,
everything storm.
Life too small a bottle
for your blundering heart.
You were asleep when my next
sister left, hopped the fence,
slid into a waiting Impala.
Then the next.
The youngest, I promised
to do better,
but there we were
a week before I left—
the midnight you cracked
my door, stood watching.
I should have been asleep
but lay there,
listened to you breathe.
You on one side,
me on the other,
a silent sliver between.

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Melody Wilson’s work appears in Nimrod, Sugar House Review, and on VerseDaily. She received 2022 Pushcart nominations from Redactions and Red Rock Review, was a finalist for the Naugatuck Narrative Poetry Contest, and a semi-finalist for the 2022 Pablo Neruda Awards. Find more of her work at melodywilson.com.

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