The Sisters: Swansong
Poetry by Rita DoveWe died one by one,
each plumper than the mirror
saw us. We exited obligingly,
rattling key chains and
cocktail jewelry, rehearsing
our ghostly encores. Glad to be rid of pincurls
and prayers, bunions
burning between
ironed sheets—we sang
our laments, praised God
and went our way quietly, were mourned
in satin and chrysanthemums…
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