[ poetry - february 07 ]
She is Sylvia's sister: the one who
didn't win a Fulbright to Newnham, who
didn't open death's lead door and return
or stun the world with words that splinter wood.
Diana's sister: the one whose face was
not captured with a thousand flashing lights
who didn't visit landmines and return
or change the world with tears for new treaties.
Desdemona's sister: the one whose wit
was not translated into many tongues
who did not trust love could win a warrior
to prove reason rules the edge of the world.
She is the butter weaver, housefly
designer, anywhere at any time
unremarkable and forgettable.
Robed in bay leaves she eats her own toes
grit-mouthed from dirt worn into her soles,
to prove nothing is so small it needs proving.
She is the book turning pages in your sleep.
She is the radio washed up on the shore.
The drunk snoring in the garbage compactor.