dear sister,

dear sister,                                                                        February 5, 2017
i guess you figured me out pretty quick
>                                                                   when i made that stupid joke
about my mother
and my move to albuquerque
and i said you’d think
from her reaction
i had moved to antartica
or afghanistan
and you told me
your mother was born
in afghanistan

i don’t make that stupid
joke anymore

i want to ask if your american father drank
but it doesn’t matter
and i think i know the answer
>                                                   in your eyes
how your childhood was filled
with real terror

you’re not crazy little sister
>                     the problem is
you’re so very humanly sane

how does a girl trust god
when she was born a woman
to a woman
who walked through war?

and then there is the other war
the battlefield drawn on the daughters
like us
who find corpses
>                             and cactus
>                                                and curses
in all the places
we go to play

the war
where the living room
is littered with mines
and the kitchen table
serves soul-bullets for breakfast
and the bread is full of bitter
bits of iron
>                  the irony of calling
>                        it peacekeeping

and we try to be tanks,
blackhawks, reapers
we try to disappear
stealth bombers
we learn never
never to show our fears
or shed our tears

but sister
no matter how much alchemy we learn
it is still impossible to turn
soft smooth gold
into hard cold iron

and so you see
you don’t need to tell me
about the war zone in your heart

the tags on our luggage
have addresses a world apart
but in each scuffed and dented
package we carry
little girls with gold in their hearts
>                             little girls in boxes
>                     hiding from the monsters
that live in our bedrooms
>                                          little girls with eyes
>           frozen open and mouths sewn closed

come my sister
we will have tea and cookies
just us
and open our boxes
and have a party
with a piñata and everything
where those girls turned to gold
can smash all the candy
and no one
will make them behave
we will have a party
and play in mountain grass
so soft it feels like the fur
of a kitten’s tummy
and we will leave our luggage
>                                                  empty
out in the rain
until the ink washes off
and dandelions sprout

and those girls
they will have cookies and tea
>                      and sleep
with the meadow mice
>                              and wake
with the call of the sum
come to kiss the birds
>                                   good morning

and you, my sister,
you will dance
and we
see war no more

About m

My ego wants to think I'm a writer but my heart knows I'm just another one of God's Kids who sometimes has words to say. 2 human kids and 3 feline kids call me Mom. Or Mooooooom. Or mewom, depending which you ask. I'm kinda-sorta busy being a student again; this time I signed myself up for a bizarre torture known as Graduate School. Theoretically in 4ish years I'll have earned some more nice letters to put with my name. Let's face it, I'm addicted to learning and probably need rehab to restore me to sanity and remove the obsession to read books. I don't remember what free time is but I think I like to spend it sleeping or playing in the mud on a river bank.
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