by Christine Butterworth-McDermott —
Every time I read a novel about a missing girl,
I think of you, though as far as I know
you might still be living. But whenever
there’s a blonde who disappears
from the mall or the fairgrounds or a beach,
I think of your long hair, and blue eyes,
your pinched sensitive face and I wonder
what happened when your family moved
From our sleepy, hollow, town. I used to spend
nights at your house when I was ten,
your butter-colored hair falling slick
and comforting over my face—and I could
imagine what it was to have a sister,
someone whose hairs were woven
into your very being. My own died
in infancy so, of course that is why
I read these books—for her, for you—
the protagonist’s longing for answers
to what happens after the head ducks
into the car, or the casket lid comes
down, or a small still body goes up
in flame, that’s the kind of quest
I understand. So, dear friend
in the ether, I let you know now
I’ll always remember how you stood,
one elbow akimbo, skinny hips at a tilt
and that you exist, bright head
in the limbo of every turning page.