A journal of narrative writing.
Sisters of the Crop

Listen to Sisters of the Crop read by Sara Henning

We never talk about how we pry black walnuts from their husks with our fingers just to watch the bitter kernels split into faces of owls, or how we took turns with thumbtacks until our fingers were Egyptian star cluster, ready for humming-bird tongues. How we pressed them together until they shut closed around the nectar, and we were sisters of the crop, drunk on each other’s sugar. When your mother wouldn’t let me come to your house, it’s not rejection that spread its wound over my body. I’m so in love with your silky corn rows, every bone in your thin wrists, I forgive you. When you come to school with bruises like feral irises because you fell down the stairs again, because you play hard with your brother, I trace my finger over each plum pit, name each lasting tenderness. When you pull my mother into the bathroom after school to show her the story of your mother forcing you onto your bed face-down, using her belt to finish you, I don’t see you again. I start climbing magnolia trees to touch tough carpals, to feel you surging. Now, dead to me, love obscures our next threshold. You’re not death’s wild-eyed solace. You’re nobody’s sweet insurgency.