sister

Today I write a letter, on paper watermarked with dinosaurs.  I can see that she is pacing back and forth.  I will draw up my reassurances and tie them to an arrow and shoot through her window.  My pen is out of ink and I must direct it perpendicular to the paper to make any marks.  I scratch out words and burn the edges with sugar until toffee fills the area.  Off it goes.  She drops like a puppet.

When we named it the fist, we brought it right up close to our faces so we could smell it and taste it– (Also your voice, your hot face, blotchy, red eyes and the squeaks that made you grit your teeth)–and let its hairs tickle our nose.

So forever the word made you think of summer nights, cool and dark in empty streets and ice cream.

I see her, in the sweater at her desk.  I know what is happening but I won’t stop it.  I’m a time traveler–I know what happens when you mess with the past.

She’s looking in the right direction this morning.  She has secret ties to the organization of fungi.  She is all heart muscle, all bone, all sunburn.

There she is: flipping through John Irving novels for sex scenes. First seduction, first rape. First punch.

There she is: playing caretaker to a limping friend. Holding her and bringing glasses of water. Driving through blue snow while she leans her head against the windows and sings drunkenly.

There she is: pretending and faking. Preening and flaunting. Dressing up to walk down. Talking trash to whisper secrets.

SISTER/PROPHET• Ghost within ghost And the not/alive shell of a living crustacean.