You laughed at me. I wished
dark things upon you as a lesson.
I was twelve, you were eleven.
That year they found the cells,
terrible in their darkness. The lesson
was once removed: my memory
of your last year its own cell. I find
myself there, still unsaying my words.
Once you pulled off your headscarf
after your hair was gone. The stillness
in that room asked for words, dark lakes
mapped in relief across your skin,
your scarf long and heavy as wet hair.
What is apology to a dying cousin,
skin already water, relieved to drop
life’s fabric into the tide, to face
a final design that accepts no regrets.
Need anything? I asked. You laughed,
said, Not another scarf, and turned
towards the last year of your life.
Allen C. Jones teaches literature in Norway. You can find more of his work and literary games at allencjones.com.