I.
(Sister) (Sister)
sitting on
sandy beach
toes dipped over
freshwaterās cold edge
sandal lines seen
on her so tan feet
sunning herself asleep
she carries her
poems like figs
shaken from the tree
of knowledge or heartbreak
or picked from a window
in Lebanon
calling them figs
does not describe her harvest
or her for that matter
it does not tell you
how important she is to me
or everything i havenāt said
she is still on the beach
she is always
up shore from me
almost close enough to witness her
barefoot markings falter mid-sand
i will follow her faded trail
she is still astray
from safety & from land
into water
it starts waist deep and drops
off quick she holds
her breath
i am worried for us
the hourglass is stagnant
is sideways
i canāt recall
our childhood
all on my own i canāt
remember when
we became sisters
embracing in momās blue robe
or when she first held up my head
sometimes i worry
that the next time we meet
we will no longer know
each other she
will dream in idioms
that i donāt understand
or she will not
understand why my fire
has never
burned as fiercely as hers
there is always the hope
that we can hold out
our harvest to each other
we will see and savor
everything we need to
though this would mean
that i would have
to pluck more than
one fig
a year
photographs are not sufficient
to tell her story
i know she loved me eventually
but love was after worry that
iād be better loved than her
snapshot of two kids
piled up on a paisley couch
with mom euphoric
there are parts of her
that i will never know
or if i did know
they would not mean
what they should
she has outlived
what i wish i could
take away from her
what hurts most
was left unresolved
there will always be
this fig
sitting in my
stomach rot
undissolving
she is not to blame
i am not to blame
too
if she can read this
she is haunting my hands
trying to talk
or type in Times to what
she was i am
sorry if iām wrong
itās been so long since we last laughed together
was it February
when we
facetimed four years ago
it was
her smile that made me cry
i would
if that wouldnāt take away
her fire
which is something
i could never do
i only hope that her harvest
will not become like
dead birds
swollen
with guilt
and decomposition
i hope that it will remain
like figs to her
nourishing if small
and beautiful despite
the heat of the sun
i hope that she will grow
like the fig trees
that live in her
through cracks
in the earthās rind
i sobbed over
the color green this morning
olive bikini
at the bottom of her plastic tub
of summer clothes
that looked better on her
than me
she always knew how to
dress me
how to braid my
hair like i braid
her words
like we still speak
Inheritance
That feeling that mutilated apple now mush beneath my boot
that pervades coats the orchard ground in an aroma of utter decay
all my beingā that saccharine soil mother carried a daughter across.
On edge, jumpy, the feeling I get now when I get too close to rot.
Vigilant, on patrolā the putrid stench of autumn prepping for tundra
while on the outside my body resists a glimpse of deathās willing gaze.
I try to look at my body in the full face of the new moon
composed, in control, the smile I make for good measure
laid-back even. The smile of a triggered pain.
What ...