The Island Where My Sister Lives, Lois Marie Harrod
There’s a tree in the middle
with an apple still on it,
red and sleek, but my sister
is not inclined to eat. No.
She prefers sun-drenched chips
on the beach where the bits
drift among the flotsam
of her fashion magazine.
She’s learning sixteen ways
to keep her man interested
when he decides to drop
shipwrecked by in cargo pants.
In the evening she watches
the moon rise in a pale green
masque of cucumber mousse,
and she closes her eyes.
