I wanted to write a poem for my sister
one about the sycamore tree

its crisp petals beneath all our shared beds
mother womb treasures split in silence.
starting from her frail bones and opaque blood
the rise of her feet
her night flower soul.

I wanted to write a poem about my sister
to gleam like a mirror
in the agony of infinite sundays and sun rays
as she calculates each sun
so it can celebrate her and reflect
from my deeply clogged adoring throat.

under and above the fig tree we lay
around us ripe round fruits
sticky with perpetual juice
rotting with skid marks
bearing the ghosts of past generations
yet a whisper is dropped
how the woods, the ocean and the desert are good
they nourish the stars.
So we move to our own dust.
Perhaps in illicit seasons we find flare
for guidance in finding a different sky.