Shannon Rankin, Untitled (Simpling) (vellum, thread, paper)
My sister once sang with me
at the bottom of a driveway that ended
in a wooden fence. Later, she
had a little door hidden
in her closet that led to the gesture
of an attic—a space with no floor,
only ceiling. In this space she learned
to yearn for tether. I had previously
committed to breach, for the rain
in the gutters to wrest free and river
through the street to eat the bus stop
benches, to ring the mailboxes in wake.
But these urges combined could only
fray. So we learned to love the leavings,
the shreds of thread on the worn carpet. We use
them to make letters, to make things we had
words for like hope and home but for her
they meant tether and for me they meant
breach and the best we could do was agree
on the harmony, was promise to hold them in our mouths.