Ingrid

A belated birthday poem for my sister

That night will come. Somewhere someone will be

entering you, his body riding

under your little body, dividing

your blood from your skin, your dark, liquid

eyes open or closed, the slipping

silken hair of your head fine

as water poured at night, the delicate

threads between your legs curled

like stitches broken. The center of your body

will tear open, as a woman will rip the

seam of her skirt so she can run. It will happen,

and when it happens I will be right here

in bed with my pen, as when you learned to read

you would go off and read in your room

as I read in mine, versions of the story

that changes in the telling, the story of the river.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s