My sister’s Italian greyhound,
already aging when I visited last,
is distressed I’ve taken her spot
on the sofa. She’s thicker than I remember,
my sister’s hair gone gray. The years apart
defy summary so we discuss grandchildren,
the garden. Lucy rounds the sofa, stops—
all long legs and angles, directs her milky gaze
toward me, deciphers the air as if code,
circles again. We’re together because
our oldest sister’s remaining months
rush toward us. The prospect of remission rises,
shatters as Lucy rounds the sofa
all balletic dignity, white legs tipped
in daintily clawed knobs. This time
Lucy swivels a gauzy stare, grumbles,
minces past. Our eyes meet, break into smile,
then the room stills, our faces alike
as when she washed and I dried,
or earlier, all six of us flickering on film,
younger sisters in matching dresses,
the oldest in black slacks strumming a guitar.
By the time Lucy rounds the sofa again
we’re comparing prescriptions,
frayed fibers winding tighter until we return
to the words our sister has said, or rather,
words said about her, her cells delinquents
wreaking havoc in the blood.
Lucy’s chagrin throbs on her refined snout,
its small black tip wrinkling.
We’ve been here before, buried two sisters.
We know how the world will shudder
its hollow tongue. This time,
three of us will remain, half as many oars
propelling a vessel through time. We don’t say it
but know, after that there will be two,
then one. Lucy stops mid-orbit,
checks the couch, starts again,
hopes next time she goes by, I’ll be gone.
–
Melody Wilson’s work appears in One, The Emerson Review, B O D Y, Crab Creek Review, Rust & Moth, and many other publications. Her first collection was awarded the Paul Nemser Prize from Lily Poetry Review and will be released in March 2026.