By Sydni Phelps

 

We went to Mexico  

without you, pictures of us 

smiling underwater,

pictures without you in

them 

 

My mom dry heaving  

on the toilet and the dogs  

going wild, the realization through

the mist on the walk 

to the guesthouse that you 

had meant it when you said

take care 

 

The ruins of a home we didn’t

know, tiny bits of your life under

a sawdust blanket, tools rusting

in the garden 

 

A stack of addressed letters twine-bound and

not quite 

hidden, a stained picture 

of us taped on the door 

 

Pulling the car over  

to breathe, the desert bleached

with sunlight.  

 

Your death certificate as  

a .pdf on my computer, the

question of whether I’m still a

sister