Mary Beth Hines

Sister

Strip off your winter clothes and climb
bare ass to the top of Klondike quarry.

Bask and tarry. Let your baby-skinned feet feel
the blush of April sun on stone.

Raise a fist. Show that sun, those stones
            your grit. Whistle down

the granite hollow loud enough
             to rouse its dead. Wave them up.

Commiserate. Ache. Forgive.
              Leap toward their promised respite

from atop that perilous ledge.
              Careen through the light, shadows

that shift like kaleidoscopic
               bits and pieces of you.

Outspin the whorl of righteous voices
               skewering your hard-earned peace.

Hoot your so longs into the free fall.
                Feel the water shatter, sting.

Let your breath scatter, surrender
                as the water opens

its blue arms to catch, clasp, receive you.

Mary Beth Hines writes from her home in Massachusetts. Her work appears, or will soon appear, in Slant, Stoneboat, SWWIM, Tar River, Valparaiso, and elsewhere. Kelsay Books published her debut poetry collection, Winter at a Summer House, in 2021. Connect with her at www.marybethhines.com