for Sister, A.
Down a hot hill
with bumblebee Deere trucks,
a 4 year old cockroach, smashed
right wing partly detached,
yellow red blinks at every corner.
Our morning full,
mine with love-making, unruly hair
and coveted sleep,
yours with surrender — duende,
the edge of something
loved, our angles, sharpie-thick lines,
zigged, crucified lane markers.
I want to be where you are
(Instead of here)
Near the false crown of your wig,
To hover the bellies
of my fingertips over your face
which begs no mercy.
– Melanie Henderson