Amy's
Ashes
Your ashes glitter
like silver zephyrs
scattered across sky
the sun limping by
panting after rain
October's untilled garden
marigolds buried in heather
your name carved in granite
beneath a large Maple tree
where you'll fall like leaves,
snowflakes every Ohio winter
when the evening turns gray
your ashes land on my coat
my lashes, my blurred footprints.
I've Always Been Afraid of You
At seventeen, I kicked my sister
in the mouth. The metal braces
couldn't save her teeth. Blood
stained the tan carpet.
Her rage doubled back to me
two fists flailing wildly in the air
my foot sunk into her stomach
as she went flying into the mirror.
The palms of my father's thick hands
caught me by surprise. The red slap across
my face still rings with suspended gavel:
would I have killed her had he not interfered?
Or him when my car careened out of control
on a dusty summer road narrowly missing the ditch
and a grove of trees. I tried to kill them both
by ending my own life.
Years later, sipping on bottles of Lone Star
in the circumference of our intimacy
smoke circling our breaths
soft laughter waltzing into the night
my sister caught me by surprise.
"I've always been afraid of you"
I heard tree limbs cracking under that
weight of icicles building up for years.
Chasms
The five or so years
that separated us
measured in footsteps
never caught up to me
widening the ever gulf
between that gray winter
and shadows of wings
spreading their omen
between caws of crows
I left her struggling in the snow,
a small mitten flattened by the wind
tears streaming down her face
"wait for me! wait for me!"
and I just ran faster.
now that she is gone
the unapproachable distance
spreads like a chasm
down the middle
of my sleep
in my dreams
I run after her
against the hard silence
calling out her name
over and over.
Always Amy
She is a fragment of memory
a fleeting shadow turning a corner
as a wisp of hair unravels across her eyes,
deep pools of brown with golden flecks
her laughter as slow as her Texas drawl.
She, who nursed spotted fawns
with broken legs; who slept with a pet skunk
her dining room filled with squirrels, puppies
cats and a pot bellied pig who used the litter box
until it outgrew her house.
She, who was easily saddened by any loss
no matter how inevitable; mother
of three young children whose memories
of her may grow uncertain with time.
Will they remember?
She wore a red flannel nightgown
that last Christmas when she scraped together
every penny she could to give them presents.
No longer my sister, my friend
she is emptiness everywhere.
Copyright © 2002 Mia
