there is a certain kind of motherhood
only an older sister knows is true
to not have borne a son from womb
but to have a friend of same blood
be a son, a gift and a light too
there must be some divinity in this
to be the one he calls on when
the cupboard is kilimanjaro for this little stranger
who is on some days foe and most days love
to be the santamaria as he climbs
on your own young shoulder blades
searching for ****** shores in worn out rooms
to be stronger than the thunder
that rumbles outside his bedroom window
to be stronger than you usually are
for the little boy whose arms cling onto you for peace
even when you are as pale as the moonlight
he claims to have followed him into our home
there is some strange purpose in this
to be guardian, disciplinarian, caretaker and girl
all at once
when our mother is too drunk to hug her son
when our father says nothing but hello
there is a kind of love
only a sister knows hurts this much
when that little snip of a man grows into boyhood
just as he grew out of your arms
when you are no longer every wonder of the world
you are simply a companion
and on good days: a comrade
always a sister and mostly a friend
there is a strange pull of the heart
at the sight of boyhood in motion
to see him cry and laugh and hurt just as you once did
to bear witness to his ripe exploration of the cosmos
and you think to yourself: were you ever this young?
he looks at you with eyes that mirror your own
yes. yes you were
there is a certain kind of motherhood
only an older sister knows is true
it is the nostalgic repetition of summers that once
seemed to last forever
it is holding your brother tight
when he is brave icarus before the fall
even more so when the time for tragedy comes
and your young, young brother realizes
that he does not bleed ichor like the gods
he bleeds red very much like his sister
there is so much love in this