sister, sister, sister

a poem dedicated to the love and complexities of sisterhood. dedicated to the brave one, the lowly phoenix, and the gentle monster.

my sister, always braver than i,
picking dollars off the dance floor;
holding wild goats to her chin.
it was always her backyard bred courage
against my field fed trepidation. 
one day she turned to me,
with confronting november-brown eyes,
and said to feel the sun’s warmth,
you cannot be wrapped up in space;
in distance as a metaphor, 
a hobby, an obsession. 
you can, however, be a cloud passing 
over a cacophony of shrieking children
on a school playground; a coney island
seagull dipping in and out of the ocean; 
an icy glass of lemonade sweating 
a puddle on an august porch.
it is imperative that you don’t be a rogue planet, 
a streaking asteroid, the constellation 
telling people who they ought to be.
i thought as above so below.
she gripped my hand and remarked,
not without you.

my sister, always rolling in the ashes of rebellion
with a swig of hennessy in her throat.
a fire breathes in her cupped hands,
ready for a soothing prayer to extinguish it.
she looked at me, in our twin flaming gazes, 
and told me about how sometimes 
you have to be your own sibling.
no matter how many times your mother
swallowed matchsticks into her warm belly.
sometimes, in spite of it.
she said starting fires isn't always about destruction,
no matter what your brother tells you.
it isn't always direct, but it is about love too.
it is our right to be wrong, she told me,
as the promise and threat of change;
as sheep setting their wool on fire;
as an imam's reason to recite. 
tell me who we are i said.
she said we, sister, are blood vessels 
in the eye of the storm. tearing down 
scorched towers, searching for faces 
we’ve loved before.
finding that they were not lost, 
but hiding.

my sister, the gentlest monster,
a threat to my individuality.
even in hiding, i find her in my stride;
in my cadence; in my cheekbones, 
high with her impression.
it was she who taught me how to eat
while the sun is still hot; 
how to make wishes over a forest fire;
how to cry in your throat, not with your lungs.
it was she who taught me that 
when religious people kill, they become sinners.
when we kill, we become ghosts.
atop the sunburnt totem pole is where
she gives her life lessons; where she rests
her throne on a stack of novels; 
where she poses as a model for us all.
there, she was my savior 
until i got close enough
to spell my name in the resentment 
fogging up her glasses;
until i asked what it is to sleep in a room
held up by the bones of who i wish to be; 
until i asked if it was admirable 
to lay pieces of my skin around the mirror 
like they’re coffee table trinkets;
until i asked if it’s inspirational to transcribe 
my pleas for normalcy onto the edge.
what if i called them reminders?
haunted remnants, dream-keepers, perhaps?
she was my sister until i asked
who i can be when i am not wanting to 
approach time with my chest puckered, 
ready to kiss fate in the eye.
sister, who am i allowed to be 
when you would crucify my tears 
if they weren't so elusive?