SISTERS

I wish, and I don’t wish, my sister would stay away.

If she returns, we’ll have to share corners, sharp crystals she wears under her skin.

She runs with a hammer and a ghost. How to trade peace in such a place?

Biting the dark, a young man raises his hand to greet her.

I tried a prayer. It cut right through like a corkscrew, spilling the wine.

No rain this evening and only a pattern of leaves on my hand.

Mother sleeps on the blue bed, father not yet back from war.

Sand and dust in layers by our door when I hang words on the clothesline.

While they shrink and dry, I must bury the birds, pretty birds, red and golden.