Day 330

For years the sisters lay together in one bed,
whispering to each other when the lights were out,
telling secrets, planning their days.
For years they brushed each other’s hair, walked
together to school, wore each other’s clothes.
Now only one of them is alive.  Now the living sister
reaches in the night and finds only empty space.
Now she talks silently to herself
so as not to disturb the others in the shelter,
one shelter, then another and another.  Now
there is no school to walk to, no tangled hair
of her sister’s to brush.  She is 
half a clip, half a lid, half a scissor.
A broken branch with the leaves blown away,
a single shoe.  She lies in the dark
counting things that have missing parts.
She writes her name and erases half of it.