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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