“Let’s be friends you and I, your pain is mine.”
– Elizabeth Smart
I sought you, found you waiting
nearby, I must have known
you were there, tucked away
in a special corner of the nest
your mouth, your words,
your living soul and its itch
your station, which I somehow pictured as St. George.
There you were carooning from the third bookshelf, in my
mother’s womb, there you were bric-a-brac, limbering, gushing,
yelling to jump off the oak panel, custom made by dad, onto the
hardwood floor beside the belgian rug.
I recall the empty afternoons, snuggled into the left corner
of the sofa, flipping through your pages, the 1955 edition of your
words, the living room pouring in its rays, sunlight swimming,
a filled hope, a peaceful pasture, your blackened used paperback.
I, an object in a museum of taxidermy, ornamental death,
I sought you, found you, waiting. This tiny tot, silenced,
then opened by your magic tricks, longing for a friend,
dabbling into the bloodied daggers of you, a sister that spoke
O, what you write! Don’t I carry it reaching out for the pain of
your knowing? I, hopeless, in all my dreams.