by Karina Borowicz
Our neighbor, she of the white hair
smoothed in a French twist. She
of flowering dresses and earrings
of mute pearl. Hands gentle enough
to unwind perfumed ribbons
from sour apples, and whose wisteria
soothed each bald–headed stone
along the top of the wall.
There was something she had that I
could use now (a paring knife,
a hair pin?) —
something she knew, that steadied
her hands, I wish she’d have given me.
I wish I had asked.