Gray-Bound
Emily Light 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 highway travel. 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. |
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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.
