Seven and Ten
My sister, seven, lay awake in the weeds. The fallow field near our house had reached a height of three feet, a haven for grasshoppers and mice. She wore a yellow cotton dress and once-white sandals; the weeds ensconced her. Running with a flimsy net after a butterfly, I tripped over her legs as I lunged, but she did not stir. She said she was practicing. Practicing for what? I asked as the butterfly beat against the threads, as she watched the wings’ diminishing returns.
(originally published in Sentence: A Journal of Prose Poetics, US)
Carrie Etter thrives on earnest conversation, wildly various poetry, spicy food and not so fine wine. Information about her books, pamphlets, anthology, travels, reading and personal dramas can be found on her blog
andotherpoems.com 