Do you remember the early years
when I pushed my bed between yours
and our bedroom door,
between Daddy and you,
night after night? I was ten,
maybe eleven. I’d hoped he’d take me
first, while you laid quiet in your twin
and listened to me beg, “Please stop.”
You’d still be next,
though I thought he’d be less angry
if I bore the brunt of his brutality.
Once he left, I’d pry your fingers
from your blanket and pull our beds
together, both of us still smelling of him;
of putrid Old Spice and a breath singed
with leftover fried chicken mixed
with soured milk. I did this night
after night. I did this for you, Becky.
You were only five and I knew
our hearts, our bodies, were irreparable.
Though I hoped, later we would recover.
At least a little. I curled you close,
like a miniature mother, and smoothed
your wet hair from your face.
Part Two
Do you remember when I first
became your big sister?
I was a ward from the state, my body
pocked with cigarette burns
and you asked why someone thought me
an ashtray. I first noticed
your missing front tooth
and how your body, small,
fragile, trembled when I hugged
you and I whispered, “You can squeeze
me back,” and you did and I felt
you wouldn’t let go.
I was the one who
washed your hair, carefully protecting
your eyes from the sting of soap.
Part Three
You once asked about Mother Mary.
I didn’t know how to explain “virgin.”
Every word felt too large, too old
for your young heart—
vagina, penetration, rape, penis—
and I knew each would lead
to more questions. I kissed your
forehead and replied, “an unloved
woman,” and your brows crinkled, heavy
with consideration, then you asked,
“That’s me, right? Unloved?”
No.
No.
No.
My face tightened as I spilled,
“I love you,” and I wanted, but couldn’t tell
you—not then, not now—“Neither
of us are virgins, not anymore.”
Part Four
We used to hide in Mother’s
walk-in, air filled with stale
moth balls and sweet lemon oil.
We became something else, someone
else, in that quiet land of little girls
pretending. Mother’s shoes, toes facing
forward, lined alongside each other
like soldiers prepped for war.
Fake leather. Embossed patterns
of synthetic snakeskin. Baby-breath
blue. Yellow so pale it reminded
me of soiled snow. Crimson dimmed
to black in the creases. The dark
blue pair made me think of violent
bruising and we both felt bad
for those shoes. You always chose
flamingo pink, slipping in your tiny
feet, filling only half. We stood
at attention and jutted our hips
like grown-ups
Part Five
In our after time, night after night,
I’d wrap you in my arms and wait ‘til
your heart slowed and your eyes
slid low. Then I’d sing and you’d tell me
my breath reminded you
of buttered corn and I’d pray
that my smell would linger with you.
Photo by Annie Spratt
