Ava C. Cipri
Sister-Shadow
//
I wonder the difference
between true ribs & floating ribs
as a possum opens its sternum—
housing nesting dolls,
so many foiled sister-selves.
//
The world splits: forest tares free of sky
& the sun swells.
Days pass into another like blurred cargo on a train—
night’s moon a solitary eye raises the tides.
Stars drop like locks from the dark doors of closets; my sister refuses food.
//
I spend three days on shore before the last boat,
departs. Soon all the women leave—cross over.
What language is spoken; distant, distant song?
Who cares to own the sea, to seek dilute fairy blood?
The red-haired man offers no explanation for taking my sister.
1600 Smallman St., Pittsburgh, PA
//
Once Metropol, Greek for Mother City.
I lean into the No Trespassing sign.
Remnants of the industrial club—
the silver glint of a mirror:
maybe the bathroom where
we drank, smoked cloves,
& fucked. Maybe the one
behind the jewel-liquored bar.
I'd rather its brilliance burn
than be gutted like the other
Strip District warehouses—
multimillion-dollar condos
rising over the Allegheny River.
The pillars still stand.
The ruins sift twilight
almost to the stage
& the mosh pit rises
& falls like a wave
under Trent Reznor’s angst:
Terrible lie. Terrible lie.
Our bodies, a chorus.
20 year-old me:
wearing what Link called
Fuck-Me Red lipstick & nails,
black ripped fishnets,
cutoff shorts, crushed velvet
black leotard, Doc Martens.
//
Oh, to Ministry,
Nitzer Ebb,
Lords of Acid,
Front 242,
to Soundgarden,
Flaming Lips,
Public Enemy,
Violent Femmes.
Oh, to Hole.
//
Praise the dancing body.
Praise the buried body—
once moving, untethered,
knowing nothing of
limits & assistive devices.
Hey God, I believed
your promises.
Your promises & lies.