Resolution
by Alana Franasiak
The year was almost new—
my sister just had her teeth ripped
from her gums and I was surprised
how whole and white they were
like stones.
I threw rocks into the creek
two and a half hours before midnight
and you balanced on the lift where
our stained motor boat used to wait
for nothing in particular since
we never wanted to go out into the bay anymore,
where the water overpowers the shrinking land.
It was too dark to see the reflections now—
nothing above us shown full and light.
You swayed and I swore
I wouldn’t catch you,
you could drown for all I cared
but you didn’t. You continued
to sway and blue television screens
continued to blink through hundreds
of small windows down streets
and streets as my sister muttered through
her swollen cheeks:
"stop hurting goddamn heal."
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