sister

a.

If I could write about you I would
believe me.
I'm troubled not
by lack of images
of you -- you monochrome delight
covered in untold rashes
swaying your hips to the
music of young and beautiful --
that is you.
Oh no. I have thoughts enough to
fill volumes full of senseless rhyme.

And no words.

b.

How do you call a chrysalis
poised to burst forth and send
a butterfly into this unforgiving world?
I have watched you these months,
half-sick
by your innocent dealings and
terrified of the minx
crouching in the shrewd corners
of your narrowed eyes.
You are these things:
my anomaly
my caterpillar
my charge
my unprepared
my crafty.

How can this be?

c.

June is your birthday and
you still revel in the fuss.
Oh my stubborn egg. How soon
the womb will expel you
will render you
ready and toss you
out to a life ripe
and brimming with girls
like me.
Should I fear for them
or for you?

d.

Tonight you said you hate me.
I do not worry for you tonight.
Please learn that life
is not people squaring off around
a table. My negotiator. My snippet.

You will read these sentences
and hit me for calling you a
caterpillar
or an egg.
You will bound head-first
into a specious pool of
offense and anger
from this rickety platform
of my lines.

See that I have only words and love now.
See now that they are the same.