I am as big as my parents
were when my elder sister was born, I am also
the age my elder brother was
when I was born.

He had a black notebook and black eyes
before he was blind, yet
he already wrote about what he could not see.

I, the little sister
the uninvited birth
the blood our father slipped
between some
  younger woman's legs — my
mother, not ours.

And my elder sister
thought most about rescuing pills small as
taste buds and opaque rocks
that color-change your mind, the happy
          opals.

She told me liquid cough syrup was bad
yet she taught me to pour
water on my father's recliner, so he may think
my mom had an accident again
maybe she will stop drinking
maybe she will stop drinking
well, maybe, sister
you could stop rescuing pills
and rescue me instead.

I felt like a murderer at age nine
starting big fights about stained seats and
fake **** — my dad
had my mom against the washing machine
but any time she gave him a ****** nose, he'd
have to wash his own **** shirt.

By then,
my brother could not see at all.

One day, he stepped into his black room, locked
the door shut, tied his beard to it
and I lost all sight of him —
my belly could have split open for
seven babies
from the last time he remembered
my name.

I send my siblings birthday cards
they cannot read,
              just to keep track of my age.