My little sister died
as I, with paring knife,
freed wings from
her shoulder blades.
She wished to fly above home
and brush clouds away.
Her peaceful face...
Mother, why scream?
Not a cry from her mouth.
She died rapt in the dream.
The knife's in the sink,
shiny and clean.
2 comments:
I'd take out the second and fourth stanza's. It's overly dramatic and ruins the mood that you've already set.
...The final verse is perfect.
I love the cold, dry of the first stanza. It has an air of mystery and shadowed sunlight. I can see the kitchen so clearly.
I don't want to know what you tell me in the second and fourth stanzas. i want to stay in the perplexing moment you'd unfurled. The final two stanzas are perfect.
Bey PS I thought I'd leave it to you to delete any unwanted critique.
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