With the selection of this poem by AG Compaine, we continue our series of original fiction or poetry by writers who either published their first book at 40 or after, or who have yet to publish a book. Writers interested in submitting work should see our guidelines.
In My Sister’s Room
1.
I’m not allowed to touch my sister’s things not the pink
jewelry box on her long dresser with the tiny dancer
that pops up when I open the lid to listen to its tune
not the gold-plated necklaces I’ve sometimes tangled not
the pale blue-capped aluminum pot with the round puff
that dusts powder on a little girl’s neck.
Her pink room where ballerinas dance
in pink slippers over one entire wall
where the big mirror hangs.
Her knick-knacks showing off as in a magazine spread
on antique-white, faux-French dressers
with soft enamel finish gold-colored inlay
around each shapely drawer pull as if
this was the home of a mother who cares.
2.
Kids don’t need nice things, my mother spits
You just outgrow them or slop them up.
She’s never been one for spoiling, or
for frilly girl things not that I can see.
It’s her wardrobe she takes hours to shop–
drags me with her to Women’s Wear
where she loses me no matter
how closely I follow
And when I find her again long minutes
later she shakes her bouffant-head
asks me why I’m always underfoot
rifles through another rack
flicks each hanger in its turn from right to left
to see what they’re showing this season
looking for the best buys
whether she needs them or not.
3.
Bobbi’s petticoat on a hanger
on her doorknob
bodice smooth as silk. Nobody’s looking
I strip off my shirt and pants slip it on
feel its tender sheen against
my little boy’s chest In the mirror thin
ribbony straps ride my bony shoulders.
Not her underclothes this is my wedding dress
with a skirt that flares below the high waist in tulle
ruffles that reach below my knees offer just a hint
of resistance as I twirl
using the slip of my socks on the hardwood
to spin the frills proud.
My sister’s there home from school
in the doorway wagging her bitter finger
Take it off! Now! She duns me
with her grievances how I scribbled
in black marker on her dresser top marred
the finish how she never wanted me
sleeping in her room in the first place.
She’s learned from Mommy
to collect my crimes hold them
for when she needs them.
It’s my stuff. All of it.
What’s wrong with you?
What’s wrong
is what’s flouncy floral and delicious
pink all that’s pretty
receding from my little boy’s reach.
Words that cross me out
like an unforgiving marker
that stains.
AG Compaine (e/eim/eis) is a psychiatrist and a psychotherapist who specializes in long term psychotherapy with adults who have childhood histories of trauma/abuse. e and eis husband are in the first generation of gay men who raised a child of their own together, and she has recently begun college. AG began writing poetry in the late 1990’s but has recommitted to eis writing since the pandemic. Starting in September 2021, e began to submit work for publication. e has had poems published in Willows Wept Review, Euphonia Journal, and The Tusculum Review.
Author photo courtesy of AG Compaine.
Ballerina photo by Merve Lyn, licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0
Bloom 