Untitled [ A Work In Progress} Poem by Amberlee Carter

My sister is depressed,
she talks of death; the man she lives for
who will never love her as more than his whore-
she wraps herself in prayer shawl; a gift
from our mother-
she says: it smells of home;
makes me nostalgic for the tender age-
memories our only tangible inheritance- but
we do have the memoirs of our parents;
their eyes, cross and glass fixtures-
a few small figurines that collect dust,
little gods that daily confess:
the divorce of Israel-
the death and resurrection-
the great depression-
We make room for the things
that remind us,
they will outlive us.