My Sister’s Hands Are Maps
By William Ross
April 15, 2026
April 15, 2026
A maze of lines and intersections
map her palms. She follows these paths
wherever they lead her. She’s gone now
map her palms. She follows these paths
wherever they lead her. She’s gone now
and midnight is bitter.
Like the restless ocean, she is pulled
by the moon, while overhead
Like the restless ocean, she is pulled
by the moon, while overhead
stars drive the dark sky, lighting
their slow journey and throwing shadow
on her final hour.
their slow journey and throwing shadow
on her final hour.
—--
The coroner cut her open, searching
for reasons, then sewed her crudely
back together. The Bahá’í women
for reasons, then sewed her crudely
back together. The Bahá’í women
came after to wash my sister’s body.
They wrapped her in a white sheet
and spoke their solemn prayers.
They wrapped her in a white sheet
and spoke their solemn prayers.
At the funeral, the harp sang for her,
notes full of sadness
still ringing in my ears. It’s too late now
notes full of sadness
still ringing in my ears. It’s too late now
to be a better brother. I would bring flowers
to her grave but she’s on the road, following
travel lines that lead to the horizon.
to her grave but she’s on the road, following
travel lines that lead to the horizon.
William Ross is a Canadian writer and visual artist living in Toronto. His poems have appeared in Rattle, Amethyst Review, The New Quarterly, The Write Launch, Heavy Feather Review, Bicoastal Review, Emerge Literary Review, and others.