Amy Smith
A Letter to My Sister
Yesterday, Mom asked me why you don’t call, and why you don’t send letters from your travels. She wonders where you are, and if you are still dancing. When she says this, I remember early mornings on the beach: the way your graceful arms could bring the wind, your long legs leaping, light as the smallest tern, your body hovering then diving gracefully into the waves.
butterfly wings
Today, I feel you in the garden. Your voice takes the shape of red begonias needing to be trimmed. In the kitchen, I slice a small burgundy tomato into a salad. Behind me, just over my right shoulder, I hear your low cynical laugh. Here in the desert a sudden salt-scent of ocean causes me to turn and I sense you in the breeze.
hearts of ancestors
Time is a scattering of stars in our mother’s mixed-up memory, the tattered bones of your last dance, and all the stories that wait to be told. She lingers here, our mother, waiting for a word from you, while you hover like fading patchouli, woody and dark, hints of light purple flowers blooming through backroads of our near-forgotten history.
lean in to listen
About the Author
Amy Smith writes poetry because it roots her into spaces that feel like home. Some of her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in several places, including: Humana Obscura, Gyroscope Review, The Poeming Pigeon, and the Wee Sparrow Water Anthology. Amy is currently pursuing her MFA degree in poetry through the low-residency program at the University of Nevada, Reno at Lake Tahoe.