May 05

For the Plane that is Stuck Halfway Around the World and My Sister Who Escapes in the Night

The soil in the bathroom sink 
smothers the water
and I don't turn off the faucet.

I want the whole house to fill 
with the emptiness of an ocean.
I want the whole house to smell my hurt. 
I want the whole house to disappear into the cavern of my ear. 

The front door cracks open,
trailing her feet and the music 
and the splinter
she gets from dancing on rough asphalt at two AM. 

I couldn't let the twenty-four sprouts that were supposed
to be a science experiment die. 
I couldn't forget the dream I had when my birds got free.
They split the sky with their talons. The moment I saw them I knew they were gone. 

I forget how to write when I cry.
I forget how to close my eyes and see her face
when the boys in the house next door laugh so hard their fingernails break.
I forget where my hands go when I am swallowing the oppressive face of the moon. 
I stay up at night
to hear the howl of a train whistle in the distance. 
Then I know I am not alone.