Sisters - a Set of Three
Sisters – a Set of Three
#1. A Sister's Lament
Don’t tell me you didn’t know
that the shirt you’re wearing is mine
and then treat me like the bad guy
when I say “take it off” and you say
“ugh, fine.”
Don’t tell me the shirt is yours
we both know that isn’t true
but no matter how many times I correct you
“it’s not your shirt”
you shoot, “it is, too.”
Don’t tell me you’ll wash it
fold it up and put it away
because I know when I get home
it’ll be inside-out and thrown astray.
So, no, don’t take my clothes
leave them in my dresser all neat and clean,
but if you’re ever missing a top,
or shoes or jackets or jeans
please, please, please,
don’t look at me.
Poem #2: Golden Shovel Poem
“And then treat me like the bad guy”
On the days when I am mistreated and
distraught, you two are always there, holding me then
while my stomach twists in knots. I may sometimes treat
you like you’re unequivocally evil, but you always give me
a shoulder to cry on, a tissue to wipe my tears, falling like
pomegranate juice on a wedding dress, you provide a lap to lay the
flooded head of mine, weighed down, buried, by a T-Rex of thoughts, and it is so bad
that I don’t always recognize this, for you are not the antagonist, but truly the good guy.
Poem #3: Ode to Sisters
I’m a junior next year.
I am a junior
next year.
That means I’ll be a senior
the year after,
and then
I’m practically dead.
But I’m not worried
about taxes
or a career
or which college I should attend
yet.
I'm worried
because I will be walking
this unexplored ground
completely
on my own.
We are not the sisters
who bicker
when we so much as draw
a deep breath,
we are not the sisters
who fight,
who scratch and swear
in moments of frustration.
We are not the sisters
who don’t call themselves
sisters.
I’ve navigated the worst of the sea,
with you at the sails,
at the wheel, telling me
“go left”
“turn right”
to sense the dark
but look for the light.
After all,
treading aimlessly
through a moonless night
is like tripping over Legos
askew on the floor,
chasing after,
searching for
that undying source of light
the cracked open bedroom door.
My sisters are my moon
they are my cracked open door
and I am afraid
so inevitably afraid
that I will step on,
that I will trip over every
single Lego,
that I will face
the coldest,
sharpest waters,
that I will have to walk this Earth
alone.
But if I am smart,
if all these years in school
have taught me anything
it is that the moon will always be there.
My sisters will always be there,
illuminating my night,
my darkness,
and I must recognize this
because we are not the sisters
who forget each other,
we are not the sisters
who hold each other back when the time comes
to soar,
and I am a junior next year,
so my time is not
that far anymore.
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