Every “can’t believe SHE
is YOUR sister” spikes acid
through my veins.
Shouldn’t my little sister shadow
me, copy my moves? Not her.
She arrived an adult, no, a presence,
wrapped in a precious, doll-sized body.
As she grew, I faded.
I pretended she wasn’t there,
even while crouching at key holes,
trying to make sense of her –
the strut, the here I am! tsunami
when she enters a room.
Surely she can’t wear lit candles
in her hair, but I see them. Others
just see the glow.
Alarie Tennille was born and raised in Portsmouth, Virginia, and graduated from the University of Virginia in the first class admitting women. She became fascinated by fine art at an early age, even though she had to go to the World Book Encyclopedia to find it. Today she visits museums everywhere she travels and spends time at the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art in Kansas City, Missouri, where her husband is a volunteer guide. Alarie’s poetry book, Running Counterclockwise, contains many ekphrastic poems. Please visit her at alariepoet.com.
The Ekphrastic Review
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