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.