Sister

brushing your hair. You never hid from me:

your mole, your white breasts. The day you left home,

I rode my bike hard and way past dark. Without you

I feared pennies pressed against my eyes.

It’s not that I don’t think of you now,

tending your spring tomatoes while I still shovel snow.

Months go by before I pick up the phone, and most days

it doesn’t seem strange that you never do—

until I see my daughters,

asleep and holding hands, their braided legs.