Dear Sister,
She doesn’t know
the strength with which she reads aloud
the focus she pulls when she sings
the invitation to join her when she starts to dance.
She doesn’t know
the poetry in the way she curls her hair
the way she pulls on her thoughts like gloves
and grasps my frozen fingers.
She doesn’t know
the answers to all my questions
the x I offer to all her equations
the tomorrow she hopes today will bring.
She doesn’t know
the way to be anyone else
She doesn’t know
how else to be.
The Birds and the Fleas 