by Ranee Zaporski

 

The dress
hangs in tatters, a sign of past seasons

two small holes for necks
at extreme angles

without feeling
wrapping myself in this shroud of

a world, tracing your frame
in thoughts of

our shared language. Shielding one another
from the horror, the accusations of

our birth. Twisted mouths free
of connection and enduring the stares

of others. The doctors announced
they would save us. No worse fate in their minds

than our shared hearts together. Surviving
the dreams of absorbing the other. Their solitary

sickness separating us

forever.

 

 

 

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Ranee Zaporski works as a teacher and a speech therapist in Wisconsin. She has published poetry in the Poydras Review, Pretty Owl Poetry, and elsewhere. She is on Twitter  @zaporskiR.