Cindy’s eyes. My little sister. My Irish twin.
Not little now.
Grown and glaring with a glare that hurt
for the hurt it craved. A jaded rage
lush with a need
for gnawing gristle while glaring
the way hatred turns into something matter-like,
an emerald beam of heat and slicing.
She’d assumed that man had died, but
he lived – lacking legs, a working bladder,
memory. Nevertheless, alive.
So she glared at me, her Irish twin,
for being unaware
that this was such bad, bad news.
First appeared in The Main Street Rag