Rob S. Friedman
December 2020
My Sister's Lamp
I haven’t seen one like it since it cracked apart. The exterior, now ceramic shards and chunks, Once a field of roses Wrapped like a thoroughbred’s winning garland, Into its shapely, curvy form.
Pink and white and red and salmon-hued plaster pieces Helpless on the floor. What a mistake, entering her forbidden space, Destined to be found out, but now so obvious, The marks of trespass, unalterable.
“You’ll make a lousy burglar,” our mother said As she coaxed me off a stone ledge At the top of the block And back to the house, Grateful for her refuge from the anger soon to be.
Rob S. Friedman 