Talitha Cumi
KORY KENNEDY
My sister speaks in silver leaves and sunsets.
Her words form like clouds over the ocean.
When we were young, I would fall asleep as she spoke
so she would fold her words up and tear them into
bits of gold and sprinkle them into my hands.
Her bedroom was a field of giant teal flowers.
She would disappear in her forest for weeks.
When she came back
she would sing galaxies to me.
At night, we sat amongst her stars and smiled.
She spoke in riddles to the rest of the world.
My parents forced her to communicate in copper and nickel
so that they could understand.
During the summer, we slept beneath the
universe on the trampoline.
I ran my fingers through her hair as she slept
and pressed my dream-stained hand
against the pages of my notebook.
Those nights she slept like an ice age.
In the winter, we grew old
and shared stories over cups of coffee.
Her warm breath spoke ghosts into the air
and they danced for us.
Everything danced for us,
and we held everything close and danced too.
KORY KENNEDY
My sister speaks in silver leaves and sunsets.
Her words form like clouds over the ocean.
When we were young, I would fall asleep as she spoke
so she would fold her words up and tear them into
bits of gold and sprinkle them into my hands.
Her bedroom was a field of giant teal flowers.
She would disappear in her forest for weeks.
When she came back
she would sing galaxies to me.
At night, we sat amongst her stars and smiled.
She spoke in riddles to the rest of the world.
My parents forced her to communicate in copper and nickel
so that they could understand.
During the summer, we slept beneath the
universe on the trampoline.
I ran my fingers through her hair as she slept
and pressed my dream-stained hand
against the pages of my notebook.
Those nights she slept like an ice age.
In the winter, we grew old
and shared stories over cups of coffee.
Her warm breath spoke ghosts into the air
and they danced for us.
Everything danced for us,
and we held everything close and danced too.