The Testimony of White Tulips
I was eight
when Sandy first
came for dinner.
She ate raw meat
from her palm,
on a dare.
Maybe it was
a mating ritual,
peacocks’ feathers
fanning kitchen air.
Mom caught Evelyn,
two lips
tickling Sandy’s ear.
Curtains agape,
a spotlight
above the sink
lit a stage
for strange neighbors—
a flower-box of tulips
as witness.
Mom and Dad
smothered her belonging—
in a trash bag
with her things,
drop-kicked them
into weeds.
The porchlight cast
flying shadows
on golf balls where
her eyes once lived.
Our father gave
my sister away,
under Orion’s belt.
Invisible streamers
trailed our street.
Tiered cake
melted on the seat.
*
Crystal Taylor is a neurodivergent poet and writer. When not writing, she spends time with her partner of 20 years. Her most recent work lives in Dorothy Parker’s Ashes, Tiny Wren Lit, Rust + Moth, and other sacred spaces. Follow her on X @CrystalTaylorSA and Instagram @cj_taylor_writes.
