Jean L. Kreiling

My Sister’s Bathrobe

The inside of the collar’s badly frayed;
the pink and sky-blue stripes began to fade
a while ago. I’ve worn it for twelve years,
she wore it for a few, and it appears
it might not last much longer. I’ll be sad
to lose it, and to lose the sense I’ve had,
each time I slip it on, that she would grin
to see it on me. She was short and thin,
I’m not, so when I wear it, I expose
a bit of leg, while it reached to her toes.
And she’d wear slippers with it, taking care
they matched the robe; my bigger feet are bare.
I put this robe on and I put on all
the ways we differed—though I don’t recall
we argued much. She listened to Garth Brooks,
I favor Brahms; she was the best of cooks —
those famous meatballs, cookies of all kinds —
while takeout is my strength. Sometimes what binds
two sisters may be each one’s readiness
to be amused by her antithesis
when it’s wrapped up in measureless affection —
as I still feel wrapped up in our connection,
and not just when I wear her robe. Although
I’ll let it go soon, with regret, I know
I won’t let go of her until the day
the world lets go of me. Some things don’t fray.

Jean L. Kreiling is the author of four collections of poetry, most recently Home and Away (2025). Her work has been awarded the Able Muse Book Award, the Frost Farm Prize, the Rhina Espaillat Poetry Prize, and the Kim Bridgford Memorial Sonnet Prize, among other honors.