Visiting
	
	Your hands look smaller
	every time I see you,
	knitting needles sprout
	like fingers that somehow
	escaped the fire.
	When I visit
	you are always sitting
	underneath the faded Monet poster.

	I ask you if the blanket you are knitting
	is for my baby cousin.
	You glance at the waterlilies
	above your head
	and reply that
	life has more holes
	than you can ever patch up.

 

 

	What You Don't Want
	
	One day you will learn why
	Piano music spinning
	On a record player
	Sounds like the waterfall where
	Your grandmother's ashes were scattered.

	One day you will learn of the power you hold
	To make your father cry
	When you whisper
	The one thing
	No one is supposed to say.

	One day you will learn that
	Your best friend had sex first.
	On an ordinary night
	When you were curled up alone
	And scared because
	You forgot to shut the closet door.
	How your eyes will open wide
	When she tells you,
	And how you won't be able to
	Think of anything but this
	Grand Canyon you are stuck far across.

	One day you will learn about
	The quiet hope of finding someone
	Who will tell you it's okay to know
	What you don't want, who will see
	Beneath your healing skin,
	And recognize what you've hidden
	In your bones.

 

 

Sarah Borsten recently received her B.A. in Creative Writing at the University of Puget Sound. Her poetry has appeared in The Roanoke Review, Cross Currents and was highlighted on the Poets Against the War website. She currently lives in Portland, Oregon working as a barista and waitress.