Audrey Gidman

History

My sister cracked her wrists on a Tuesday. It was breezy. It was July.

She lifted so her wrists were less like hinges and more like edges to veer from; afraid of breaking; afraid
of being wrong. I understood—I tried to carry her.

She had always hated wrists—the way they moved like loose hinges, like they could fall off. There were
nights I swear she feared touch, as if her hands would leave her.

It was July. We were in Maine. She did not often crack her wrists; thin and sharp; they had good
angles.

The sun was high and not unhappy. The clouds were shaped like spines. Tall and jagged mountains. It
was a Tuesday.

I cracked my wrists. She seemed afraid the wind would break her; Maine and its mountains. I tried to
carry her.

The sun a kind of orchid—I tried to carry her.

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Audrey Gidman is a queer poet living in Maine. Her poems can be found or are forthcoming in SWWIM, Wax Nine, The West Review, The Inflectionist Review, Rogue Agent, ang(st), Doubleback Review and elsewhere. Her chapbook, body psalms, winner of the Elyse Wolf Prize, is forthcoming from Slate Roof Press. Twitter // @audreygidman