robyn jensen

Haggard swollen teacup,
chipped at milky edge,
carried for only the morning—
our sister’s breath on porcelain china
cooled in an instant the tea we heated.
Tired, watery, unseeing,
her bluing eyes
unmade the old photographs
of swaying to the music
under the shade of the lindens.
Young, blind
from crying aloud as one,
we lifted up the stylus,
as if she was listening through a veil
one wall beyond our room.