By Kate Gray
December 6th, 2013

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My sister is bulb, paper-shelled, cleaved, 
six inches under soil, prepped and turned.

My sister is cumulus, extravagant thermals,
wisps lifting eyelids, eyebrows, and lips.

My sister is earthworm, segmented, 
soft plow, persistent and slick. 

When nurses plunge suction down her breathing tube,
closed eyes cry, and bleating, she is lamb.

When doctors wake her, rake knuckles
across her sternum, she is magma, chambered.

Like rhododendron after clearcut
Like marram grass on sand

Like bracken ferns after fire,
my sister is prayer.