Flyers


My sister is moving with lullaby feet, rocking her first born in movements that speak of the pain in the marrow of her fragile bones, say soft and so careful over hard and cold stones.


My sister who flew with fairytale grace, as a star of trapeze dared the spotlight to trace how far from our help she could stop in mid-air, how long she could shine, all eyes fixed on her.


My sister who fell with apocryphal plight, left unable to lookup, afraid to catch sight of a star, while in darkness she relearned to walk, withdrew from her friends, refused to talk.


Our Father began it, sang us nursery rhymes, held by our wrists like swings we’d climb, up past his shoulders, until with a flick he’d let us go and catch us with one magic twist.


While I accepted my parable weight – by six or seven too heavy for flight – my sister, the addict, couldn’t stop then, finding stronger, braver, reckless men.


So my sister is moving with lullaby feet, rocking her new girl in her arms as she speaks: these small steps I make with my painful bones are summersaults over these cold breaking stones.


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