In memory of Soverskan på Oknö
He watched as his sister’s dimpled knuckles
Were filled with slender threads of bone
While she slept through the bloom of the honeysuckles
Though her hair and nails hadn’t grown.
Their mother poured milk down her throat every day
Hoping that one day she’d open her eyes
Once in a while she would sit up and pray
Yet they said there was no chance that she’d rise.
And when she did, some thirty years later,
She couldn’t remember their faces,
Her mind, her thoughts were no greater
Than anything time erases.
Now they say she was awake all those years,
Hibernating, hiding from reality,
It explains her hair and nails and tears—
The fear of her own mortality.