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Poem That My Sister Will Never See
When I was tired of being a woman
with all the sin and sacrifice, holding
a blade in my left hand, a pretty cut green
glass goblet in my right, you were there
to grab and shatter, blood and burgundy
sloshed between the breasts you just paid off.
Yes, you saved me, but for what?
To keep me a hanging hag in your weekly
confession to Father? I bet you flaunt
your new cleavage in that booth, turned on
by the thought of his peaking between
waffle walls as you cry. What a burden I've become.
Do you squeeze your nipple to prove
my bad luck has made you a mother?
Your son counts and kisses, but will live
with a label. Forget that - I am the loser.
He may yet be branded on coins
or his song sung when your flesh
has lost its worth. Mine is a life
happy to be lit on wicks, prayed for
by old scarved women, purses
fat with tissues and twenties.
Oh sister, please think back!
The moon above us is our moon,
the man from a white and pink bedroom,
remember? We were orphaned together
in '79, scrubbed pyrex clean of turkey
guts and holidays and how we laughed
through those tears! Chipped in
for rip-off flowers for them,
saying no money could ever express...
but we paid with her bookeepers blood.
We did it together, so it was right.
You have her smile and popularity;
me, her dyed red hair and maybe the better
love of our dead daddy. Firstborns are special and
you know this with yours. I'm sorry!
No, not really, sister. I cannot apologize.
For they waited for your sobs upon the stone,
your son's smile buried under tossed old earth,
an unnamed flower breaking through his eyes.
You know I love you, and you've
paid and paid again for that. God knows
what mumbled beneath the comforting words
and gift checks.
Can you wear a baggy sweater this year,
and take me to the cemetery? I promise
to ask daddy to love you best and help
you dig a place for the boys picture.
I promise not to mention how tired I am.
How nice it would be, bone to bone,
heart to heart, my own son's photo blossoming
under the stone. I wish it....but I won't say it.
I love you, sister. Please don't try so hard
to save me next time. Remember our moon -
remember to leave my hands free
to touch him.
ã Dec 2001, Lori Williams
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