Photography © Edward S. Gault

 

little sister

last month. you were honeysuckled hands. sweet syrup
steeped in lukewarm water. you were golden arcs of

pollen creeping closer and closer and closer
to the bottom of my cup. it’s dark down there.

did i push you too far? after that night i only think
in soliloquies to god, or to myself. or to you. i can’t

tell if you’re awake or not. eyes writhing like worms ripped
from sticky earth. you breathe shallow, sallow. you look

like the moon: waxy and yellow on candlelit sheets.
coarse cotton made smooth. i can taste

your laughter on my tongue. last month it was hot,
summer sand and sugar. now it’s cracked bone

and brittle toffee. i love yous lost in
translation. muddled prayers and cowardly

catharsis that i don’t deserve.

 

Kasha Tyranski is a high school junior from St. Pete, Florida. When she’s not bracing for the next hurricane, you’ll catch her chugging protein shakes on the tennis court or burning banana bread with friends.

Edward S. Gault is a poet and fine art photographer. He lives at Mosaic Commons, a co-housing community in Berlin, Ma. He has a wife Karen, and daughter.