Tag Archives: sisters

Jean L. Kreiling, ‘My Sister’s Bathrobe’

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The inside of the collar’s badly frayed;
the pink and sky-blue stripes began to fade
a while ago. I’ve worn it for twelve years,
she wore it for a few, and it appears
it might not last much longer. I’ll be sad
to lose it, and to lose the sense I’ve had,
each time I slip it on, that she would grin
to see it on me. She was short and thin,
I’m not, so when I wear it, I expose
a bit of leg, while it reached to her toes.
And she’d wear slippers with it, taking care
they matched the robe; my bigger feet are bare.
I put this robe on and I put on all
the ways we differed—though I don’t recall
we argued much. She listened to Garth Brooks,
I favor Brahms; she was the best of cooks —
those famous meatballs, cookies of all kinds —
while takeout is my strength. Sometimes what binds
two sisters may be each one’s readiness
to be amused by her antithesis
when it’s wrapped up in measureless affection —
as I still feel wrapped up in our connection,
and not just when I wear her robe. Although
I’ll let it go soon, with regret, I know
I won’t let go of her until the day
the world lets go of me. Some things don’t fray.

*****

Jean L. Kreiling writes: “This poem is entirely autobiographical; my sister Susan’s premature death to brain cancer broke my family’s heart. Wearing her robe has been therapeutic—as was writing this poem—but I’ll miss her every day for the rest of my life.”

‘My Sister’s Bathrobe’ was first published in Pulsebeat Poetry Journal.

Jean L. Kreiling is the author of four collections of poetry, most recently Home and Away (2025). Her work has been awarded the Able Muse Book Award, the Frost Farm Prize, the Rhina Espaillat Poetry Prize, and the Kim Bridgford Memorial Sonnet Prize, among other honors.

Pulsebeat Poetry Journal

“Bathrobe person” by artant is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

Semi-formal quatrains: Rachel Hadas, ‘Roadblock’

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Call me the bee buzzing in the museum.
The younger sister fussing through a house
still stiff with loss.
The meddling goblin in the mausoleum.

My dream: with three in the front seat, we drive
under a bridge and halt. A huge gray bus
blocks the whole road, including us,
the only travelers who are left alive.

It’s drizzling; the windshield wiper blades
busily gesture, yet we’re nearly blind.
You two seem not to mind
blank windows, pulled-down shades.

I mind. I want to get out and explore,
to move around
the deathly obstacle. “Don’t make a sound,”
you say. (Who are you?) “Don’t go near that door.”

Our mountain drive last month—that wasn’t dreamed.
We three again. We ran a dog down. I
alone looked back, alone let out a cry.
I saw it lying in its blood and screamed.

So tell me what these images portend.
Am I a noisy bird of evil omen
or just a person, apprehensive, human,
moving ahead, kid sister into woman,

stonewalled by death each time she rounds a bend?

*****

Rachel Hadas writes: ” ‘Roadblock’ is an older poem, inspired by a visit to my sister and her then husband  years ago.  Our drive, and running over the dog really happened, as did the dream…but which came first?  And another question: would I have remembered either the car accident or the dream had I not written them into a poem?  Dreams still figure often in my poems.  And the fact that I’ll always be a younger sister, while it doesn’t get mentioned all that frequently, is a permanent feature of my consciousness that probably works its way into many of my poems however subliminally. The bee buzzing: my sister once complained that going to a museum with me was like going to a museum with a bee, a comment I’d forgotten until rereading this poem brought it back.  And those “blank windows, pulled-down shades”: doesn’t poetry often strive to pull the shades up?”

‘Roadblock’ is collected in ‘Halfway Down the Hall: New and Selected Poems’ (Wesleyan University Press, 1998)

Rachel Hadas’s recent books include Love and Dread, Pandemic Almanac, and Ghost Guest. Her translations include Euripides’s Iphigenia plays and a portion of Nonnus’s Tales of Dionysus. Professor Emerita at Rutgers-Newark, where she taught for many years, she now teaches at 92Y in New York City and serves as poetry editor of Classical Outlook. Her honors include a Guggenheim fellowship and an award from the American Academy-Institute of Arts and Letters.

Photo: “Bus Crash at Ladprao-Chokchai4” by isriya is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0.

Weekend read: Semi-formal: Darlene Young, ‘Sisters’

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for Marilyn

Litter mates. Glitter mates. Mirror
of what you hate, what you adore
about yourself. Sleep together on the floor.
Giggles and snorts, kicks, forts
of chairs and furry blankets. Fury. Tangle.
Tussle and brush. Braid and wrangle, pulling hair;
it’s just not fair. One of you is picked.
Not it! On your mark, get set and go! Kicked
gameboards; slam and pout. Crossing the street
when the mean dog is out. I dare you.
A secret meeting place under the willows
against the fence. Sheets and pillows.
Toothbrushes, blood, things buried in mud.
All-ee, All-ee in free! Quit looking at me.
Canned peaches, cold beaches. You
and not-you;
anyone but you.

So sick of that piano song! Scented
markers. Shotgun! Wishing she was anyone.
Wanting to be anyone. Else. Lure the cat
to your lap from hers, pointing out
how loud he purrs. Making cookies.
Making up. Stealing make-up. Just shut up.
Together, bang the pots on New Year’s.
Pretend that you don’t hear her tears. Her
bad boyfriend that you hate. And yours.
Get home late. Will you, won’t you? Tattle-tell.
Pounding on the bathroom door, shirt that’s wadded
on the floor. You,
not you.

Share a mattress in the tent,
trees and stars and what you meant.
The thrilling doorbell. That weird noise
she makes in her throat. You both finish
the movie quote. Belting songs in underwear,
saying that you love her hair. Midnight soda run,
car windows down—U2 blasting to the edge of town.
Knowing look, shared favorite book,
all the things
you’ll always keep.
Someday, you’ll rock her child to sleep.

*****

‘Sisters’ was published in New Verse Review, and nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Darlene Young writes: “I’ve been blessed with two radiant, hilarious, gifted sisters. The one closest to my age has been battling cancer this year, something that took our mother when we were in our early twenties. I wrote this poem in honor of her, her courage, and all she has meant in my life.”

Darlene Young is the author of three poetry collections (most recently, Count Me In from Signature Press, 2024). She teaches writing at Brigham Young University and has served as poetry editor for Dialogue and Segullah journals. Her work has been noted in Best American Essays and nominated for Pushcart Prizes. She lives in South Jordan, Utah. Find more about her at darlene-young.com and @darlylar.

Photo: Darlene Young and her sister.