Lyn Lifshin ~ On My Sister’s Birthday

I hear Delilah’s dead. Delilah—
I almost wrote “delete” because
everything delighted her. It
can’t be Delilah who beat
advanced stomach cancer,
delighted in everything that
grew my tangerine blossoms.
This woman who brought me
special herb tea for sleep.
She sang polishing the dresser,
arranging my barrettes in
a new pattern each time.
Delilah singing a song of her
home, telling me of the
flowers in Guatemala,
the fruits sweeter than anything
here. I think of her daughter,
the dog she adored, but
mostly her laugh, husky and
bell like at the same time
with a little giggle. “Any
body home” almost a song
I won’t hear ever. Gone.
Over as any touch from
my sister.



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