Across the room, my sister’s arm trembles
to me, so I lift it around my neck.
She tells me this pain helps her know God better,
as though he were stitching himself to her,
invisible needle lacing each nerve
sharp glint by bloody glint. She feels, he feels
the jabs and tugs that pull them close. I lean
back, but her elbow tightens, holds me fast.
Don’t leave me, she says. Later, rolling her chair
in the park, I frown at some kid asking
(some parent saying, shhhh): is it a girl?
This kid’s arm, raised, flings in sudden unwant
from a cup—water bright in the bent air
before it drops. My sister laughs and says: I am.
by Mary Somerville McSparran
Mary Somerville McSparran received her MFA from Vanderbilt University and her MLS from Indiana University. Her work has been published in Image. As Curator of Manuscripts at the Vanderbilt Special Collections Library, she works to integrate poetics and primary sources through teaching, events, and exhibitions.
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