The hills looked like the white- gray
morning cast itself onto their limbs,
one leafless tree shivering, its adornment of crows
fragile in the stillness. My sister styled
my hair – though I am older
I didn't care the way she did
about appearances, being less blessed.
Under twenty and she called it: the
first gray. Don't pull it or
it will multiply like crows on a cloudy
winter morning when most cars balk at
I traversed the hills’ scalps, pushing silver
birches from tickling my nose.
I rose from the closed
toilet, hair hot from the straightener a white
burn adorning the crown of each ear; I doubt
we said much, sisters bound only by future
patterns of gray.
About the Author: Emily Light’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Lunch Ticket, Bop Dead City, Amaryllis, and Star 82 Review, among others. She works as an English teacher and lives in northern New Jersey with her husband and son.