Lyn Lifshin

My Sister’s Diaries

spread out in the dark

room of the house

where sleet bent

pines are dripping,

diaries like shells

a blood sun catches

glass turned ruby and

cranberry in altered

light. Her today, a

net of holes. But

these leather books

with their spines

cracking like debris

from a wrecked ship

burning to surface

stud the colorless

crystalline haze

the way a field of

jonquils push

thru snow