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In the summer we grew fat as figs

and pale as pearls.

The sun would rise faster than it set,

big bellied and merciless.

We would sway and fade under her heated gaze,

laying on overstuffed ocean colored pillows

leaking feathers from mythical birds.

  Sisters, all of us.

Hair rivers of gold, acres of raven's wing,

or tangles of copper.

The day would give to night as we lazed

making up gossip, braiding hair, or mouthing

ice clear as diamond chips.

Our parents were myth or religion.

The elders claim to have seen them once

or perhaps twice.

New sisters were brought by nurse maids.

Bundled pink, dusk, ochre, or midnight.

We learned our colors by our sister's skins.

We named each other and renamed ourselves.

Do I miss them?

With every breath that leaves my body.

How am I here?

I grabbed hold of a Phoenix.

      When she wearied she dropped me.

Is this true?

As true as the tales you tell yourself.

Poetry & Art by Monica Michelle