The word knot has several meanings and can indicate anything from a fastening to a tangle of rope.
—The Morrow Guide to Knots, Mario Bigon & Guido Regazzoni
A small silver amulet, an imperfect circle, hangs on a string around my neck. One sister got it for me on my birthday. Then another for herself. And one for the eldest, whose heart had been broken, as well.
A small silver amulet, an imperfect circle, hangs on a string, a choker, around my neck. One sister, not doing well, her heart aching for the broken-hearted sister who’d stayed at her house—not easy—got it for me. Then another for herself. And one for the eldest who, having fallen for a man already married—and who, though he swore he loved my sister, must have loved the other more—was not getting better. Her heart, which she wears on her sleeve, wouldn’t mend.
A small imperfect circle hangs on a string, a choker, around my neck. One sister, not doing well, though she hides it and does lots of yoga, got it for me, who was not doing well, my heart breaking for the aching-hearted sister, and also the eldest was now staying with me. Then another for herself. And one for the eldest who’d been the other woman, a term we never uttered, but if her heart hadn’t shattered, wouldn’t the other woman’s heart have busted instead?
A small silver amulet, an imperfect circle, hangs, a choker, around my neck. One sister, the yogi, who is also the glue of the family, got it for me who, short-tempered on day three of the eldest’s visit, yelled at my daughter—Stop singing that song! It’s a round, not meant for one person to sing over and over. Then another for herself. And one for the eldest about whom our mother is so worried, she changed her will and will leave everything to her in the end.
A small silver amulet, an imperfect circle, hangs on a string. One sister, the glue, to whom our worried mother has pleaded for a promise to care for the eldest after she, our mother, is dead, got it for me who, along with the youngest, phone our mother each day to speak of the eldest, and never of one another, not even—and especially not when—one of us is hurting. Then another for herself. And one for the eldest who—as we try not to—believes she’s alone in the world.
FAY DILLOF’s poems have appeared in FIELD, New Ohio Review, Sugar House Review, Barrow Street, Tupelo Quarterly, Spillway, Mid-American Review, and elsewhere. She has been awarded the DogwoodLiterary Prize in Poetry, The Milton Kessler Memorial Prize for Poetry, an Adirondack Center for Writing’s Anne LaBastille Memorial Writers Residency, and scholarships from Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference and Napa Valley Writers’ Conference. Fay wishes she could find the exact quote in which Marguerite Duras says something akin to “No matter what I say, I will never discover why I write, nor how others do not write.”
Latest posts by Fay Dillof (see all)
- How to Tie One Hundred Knots - July 8, 2020
