It’s the stories
Someone had to write,
The scars, and how they stretch
Between us, and we may have
Missed it,
The moments
For a chance,
The unlived narratives,
You know…the ones
Neatly placed by God,
The ones we saw all along
From our corner eyes?
Instead, we say, family?
And, I think of my father,
I am nine. I remember her,
She’s systematic, too,
Like the way father separates us
From the boat,
And how we drift,
Until we become undone
From the dock,
Like my words,
Pools of scribbles,
Never spoken, traveling
Between two oceans, the poetics.
My sister, four, is next to me.
It’s the last time we’re equals, shipmates
From the same wreck.
We wear swimsuits, and
Choose our stories,
Losing one another
After being taken captive by the wild.
