Sisters
I have three sisters. They each represent volumes of life in and of themselves, and the years we spent together in childhood imprinted me with an enormous library of memories and moments.
My invitation to you: Honor a sister (doesn’t have to be a literal, genetic sister) in art.
I.
A girl is tender, thin and new,
like a leaf, which is why I mistook the word
in your language, thinking you were talking about leaves
when you were talking about girls
And still these are related in my mind,
the world full of these light-spiraling girls
opening up to the source, just waiting to grow.
My sister was a girl like a tender, thin and new
sheath over a bright spirit, and she was drawn
to wild bulbs, the reckless breakers
crocus, iris, that push through
with their hard heads
until they crown. The kind that make it
past the dark, compressed winter
that harbors ice in its heart and holds its stones
like coins in a hard grip, and appear
at once and everywhere.
The worst of these, narcissus
scented velvet and rich, a veil all over you
with tidings from a nameless great beyond
captured her the most, and took her far away from us.
The way back was long, way longer
so much incredibly longer
than any of us could have ever imagined.
This is why I fear what might still be down there,
some store planted long ago and forgotten
threatening to seize any of us
with a fascination we can't refuse.
This is why I comb the dirt
every night before bed
with a deep claw,
not at peace
until I see a smooth, even bed
of perfectly crumbled soil,
seeded with grass, harmless ants,
and the bulbs I count as known.
II.
We found the sacrum of some animal
whitened in the sun
in sun-silvered grass
and black soil.
A deer, we said,
and held it against my back,
to show it was a sacrum.
It has a hole I slid my fingers inside,
where the spine could connect, livingly.
So we fleshed out this deer
from the high peak of its haunch.
Then we saw two deer,
brown, flickering, in the hills, who stood still
until you cracked a twig,
and giggled,
over your large feet,
and buckling knees.
Later on we let the moon go, westward, slinging out
to that broad beach, where the waves mount into piles,
one hundred yards of whitewater.
——
Thumbnail image respectfully borrowed from The Wonderful Things You Will Be, by Emily Winfield Martin.