Sister, Come
Sister comes to me, crying, again
another heartache, another bone chilling event
stripped the sinew from her back
and left her bent in on herself,
arms giving her the hold she needs.
It is not that she is weak, she is wrestled
to the ground with her sorrow.
Sister comes, eyes bright as hawks,
feathers in her hair, rings on her fingers
and a red bandana on her brow.
She says, “ I am up and at war.”
I follow her to her trenches
knowing every earring on every ear,
and the same man, different eyes,
skitters against her heart
for the night, and maybe a day.
Sister comes around to this, always,
she is too strong to stay down
but to weak to pick good men.
I have grown accustomed
to wrapping a quilt on her sobbing frame
and letting her lie it off.
Sister, come, you are awful in your quiet.
I need your stage and rage
for my bones are brittled here
hanging out the midnight door
waiting for the beer or cheer
to bring you home where you belong.
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