My Sister

My sister was famous for dying unborn.
With only blood to bury no memorial amassed,
no candles burned, but ashes cast
of a deep and dying love landed like fairylights
in newborn hair.

I can’t help but picture her
as a presence
of top-heavy perfection.
Reading Thoreau and Irving and always
using fresh herbs in the soup.
She would have an immortal immunity toward
Garbage bags left to multiply in the sun.
Never an enemy but always a foil,
she would resist
clandestine nights, carbohydrates,
the soporific advances of barmen and employers,
snooze buttons and shoe sales.

And always would my sister hold
the condition of her conception,
the primal symbolism of the past
clutched to her side like a phantom limb.
Skin wrapped in a flushed pink,
She crawled
out of the sticky soup and foam
of yesterday’s boiling heat.
A product of rum and
broken condoms.