by Kari Flickinger
Our Sister, Bodily Death
Saint Francis called her. I never suspected
we were twins. I thought her the eldest,
almost an aunt, tall enough to stoop crossing,
over my shoulder, the ends of her good scarf-
one in front, one behind, the first step
in a lesson on knots. I thought her always ahead,
ears pierced, impossible to catch, taking ships
between continents.
If I said I wanted to catch her
that was before I had to name someone to whom
I could leave my sons. If once I thought she was
a glamour, my soror, for them I did not want her
as an aunt–or any kin.
But I will get what I wished
for first: to share a room, almost all twin bed.
What I did not want I will also get: she will fraternize
with my orphaned sons, our sister, bodily death.
Jane Zwart teaches at Calvin University, where she also co-directs the Calvin Center for Faith & Writing. Her poems have previously appeared in Ploughshares, Poetry, and TriQuarterly, as well as other journals and magazines.
Kari Flickinger is the author of The Gull and the Bell Tower (Femme Salvé Books) and Ceiling Fan (forthcoming with Rare Swan Press). Her work has been nominated for Best of the Net. She is an alumna of UC Berkeley and a Poetry and Music Editor for Storyteller’s Refrain.