GloPoWriMo – Day 13

Salt-Spray Rosary

I stole my sister’s tears
to string around my neck.

100 for my father’s death,
10 for the tuxedo cat.
50 for the shotgun her
husband stole from neighbors,
70 for the mania
that drove the frantic theft.

Thousands for our mother
who lives beyond the reach
of memory, abandoned fate.
And countless more for distance
and time’s strange grasping hand.

I don’t wear pearls
around my sweaty neck.
I finger this salty rosary
that lets me never forget

a tear for every mile
between us, enough to fill
the wide salt bay
where floats her island home
inescapably far away.

I never saw my sister cry.
I stole her salt-spray tears.

Daily Prompt:  “write a non-apology for the things you’ve stolen,” from Na/GloPoWriMo.

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