raisins by Rebecca Holand

raisins

the best is a raisin sandwich

(the honey doesn’t count)

it’s in the press of raisins

the soft fold of bread

if I had a brother

he’d christen it

rabbit-turd munch

burping a beer

if my sister hadn’t died

she’d slip lox in, brie

mocking the raisins

macho-man caviar

later, by sink of dirty dishes

she would turn, grinning

raisins wedged

between her teeth