Little Sister

She despised the bath tub
like I despised the seasons.

Little sister thought the reds and embers
were a sign of the glory of the forthcoming Day.
I saw the leaves falling, flowing down
onto the sidewalk hollow, exploding
with more leaves, of a different tree.

Little sister, smaller than my thumb.
We grew up in the same tree, the same house;
mother nature held our hands
as we learned to jump.

Little sister, my thumb’s skin
peeled back to reveal new flesh,
a new revelation starting in the red stone.
My existence, her existence
more bitter than a desert summer.

I picked at the roots of the cracking
tree, finding nothing holy about it.
Same tree, same house, yet my soles
stayed covered in hard-crusted mud.

I saw winter on its way,
pulling back the first layer of grass,
the deep greens we set foot on,
to the dark browns we hid ourselves from.

Same house, same tree,
something brings me back to winter
enjambed with too many stars,
And she had just learned how to count.

If I could go back, I would count them for her,
sheltering her from my scorching summers.

Little sister, too many years apart.
a millennia of inconclusive memory sparks,
where my memories ended
hers began.

I bet she has a better childhood than
me, swinging from jungle gyms,
and uprooting spring blades
until autumn.

 

 

Reviews

[Beccy]

'If I could go back, I would count them for her.'

You just made me cry with this poem. It so rarely happens and I am curiously happy.

Beccy.