Emily
I feel cut off
from the world I wish
to reside in.
No walks
in the park with my sister
discussing literature
and men. No romanticism
from my mother.
The books my father read
were standard American
true crime.
I say not
Hogmanay, but when
I'm here, I imagine
walking like the others
with their fathers
or their brothers.
Does warmth
measured out
by greater transience
collect and spill?
Will my sister
understand?
I'll see her
at Christmas, a month
of my every year
for this crime
of existence.
Will love
grow warmer
as I'm missing him?
I think so.
I'm resilient.
I'll adjust.
I'm giving in.
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