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Isabelle Correa
SPLIT LIPS
My sister plucks
gravel pebbles
from the driveway,
thistle from the edge
of the yard,
a fist
of brittle leaves.
Stirs and sings.
Like any good mother would,
spoons the healing
soup
into the kitten’s
split lips,
its little tongue
a church.
We prayed it to life
but we weren’t saints
of anything.
It choked all the way
to death. No blood
on our hands, just a body
limp like petals,
a breathless thing,
which is to say,
someone who will never leave.
This is how I learned to love.
Come,
open your mouth.