Lisa Low
Three Sisters
The end can come at any time, so they
sit and muse on the past and still grow closer;
one sister with knees hugged to her chest;
another against the sofa’s arm; a third
with legs stretched sideways, feet propped
on a pillow. Fresh roasted coffee, birthday
cake crumbs, and tossed-aside napkins,
the remains of a day that rises and falls
like a mother’s breast as they talk.
From time to time, a husband comes
and drops to his knees at the old wood stove,
dutiful to plug the thick logs in. The fire
rages orange against the sinking sun.
Once they thought they’d take a walk, amble
with the dog past the rough granite graves
stacked at odd angles across the road,
and from there down the hill to the trail
that smokes along the Ipswich;
but none rose; none left this space
by the well-tended garden and the fence.
As they talked the sun went down
and their words, braided into a single stalk,
bent to the still point at the center of the world.
The musty smell of milk and mine; the motherload.
Remarkable Things
Sunday morning walk with Rick
on the lime green grass by the Charles.
Crews in their sculls, bent laboring,
lift their dripping oars.
Gulls drift, white on blue,
wings spread from the spine.
Then, wild red roses on a white house.
I back up and stand in the shade
to see it. I am overwhelmed,
eating watermelon, the cool fruit water
slanting down my cheeks; no time now
to wipe my chin; my eyes drink
the red fluid; my lips say, word by word,
Rick, look at the roses;
then, for the first time—, color-blind;
near-sighted—; not just to humor me---,
he’s saying, it’s remarkable, Lisa;
a remarkable thing.
Lisa Low’s essays, book reviews, and interviews have appeared in The Massachusetts Review, The Boston Review, The Tupelo Quarterly, and The Adroit Journal. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in a variety of literary journals, among them Valparaiso Poetry Review, Louisiana Literature, Pennsylvania English, Phoebe, American Journal of Poetry, and Delmarva Review.
