A third poem from Killarney Clary:
She was sick and we had gone ahead of her through the
gardens and attics, resting in a cool grotto. She couldn’t
have died, we reasoned, because she would have had to pass
us. We had gone ahead and left her in an easy chair—her
clothing unfastened, elastic braces around her stomach.
Then we must have looked back through the arbor and the
rooms over the garage.
I was alone when I found her. She was still my sister but
happier and she looked like someone else. I believed her
but knew my mother wouldn’t. And I forgave her anything;
she was only responsible to stay giddy and senseless.
No one should worry about her again.