by Shana Hill
When you turn forty-six, I halve it with a blunt scissor
I dread history, thick like the rings of a tree
When you were sixteen, I was lonely for you sister
When you turn forty-six, I have you with a blunt scissor
It smells like children running, the lock on the floor
I stare into its mustard core. You left me at sixteen
When you turn forty-six, I halve it with a blunt scissor
I dread history, thick like the rings of a tree
Thick like the rings of a tree, I dread the future
I’ve had it with blunt scissors. When I turn forty-six
If you leave me it will sting, you stare into your mustard core
The lock on the door, sounds of grown children hiding
I’m half blunt with you sister, when I turn forty-six
I’ll still be lonely with my scissor, like I was at sixteen
Thick like the rings of a tree, I dread the future
Will I still have you sister, when I turn forty-six
Shana Hill’s poetry has or will soon appear in The MacGuffin, Ocean State Review, Slipstream Magazine, and elsewhere. Her poem, “Tied,” published by the museum of americana, was a 2020 Best of The Net finalist. She is a co-editor on Essential Voices: A COVID-19 Anthology (West Virginia University Press, July 2024). Shana is a member of the Poemworks Collective of Boston and is the founder of Poetica Pastor, a business which assists writers in the publication process.