rebecca

Here is one of my poems. It is about the last days of my sister's life and how she just reverted to being and looking like a child. (She was 36.)

 

Strawberry Milkshake

Glazed eyes. Child’s voice.

RAVAGED Body.

 

“I’d like A Strawberry Milkshake.” She said.

With the hope of a 6 year old at McDonald’s on Sunday.

 

“Of Course.” I say. There is nothing I won’t do.

To ease you. To soothe you.

Put your cancer eaten mind to rest.

 

In the Kitchen:

Heavy Cream. The fattest ice cream I can find for her little bones.

Sugar. Ensure that stirs like pulled taffy.

And Strawberries: Fresh, red, sweet.

It’s creamy , frothy, fat-laden.

 

I put it in a clear, tall Diner glass and take it to her.

“Is that all for me?” She says as she sips like it’s the first time.

 

“You don’t have to share.” I say. Never again. Beautiful, Brilliant Chlld.

A million kinds. Any kind you want.

All for you.

 

 

M.S.S.