Unkind, Unkindred
I thicken at the thigh // where a light should shine // my sister and her glamour girl legs // we are unkindred // we ply in ragtag cosmic gifts // she told me I should have been a plumber // nonsense / nonsense // maybe I want to kiss this memory // maybe dress it in the truth // or truthiness // the way she would rewrite stories // I’m sure she believed // each version // truer than the last // at night I tear each one apart // at the seams // she only ever wanted to feel safe // if safe is another word for right // I only ever wanted to be seen // literally who am I // beyond her caramely stare // I’ll be here fiddling // with seams // do I stitch them back together // my fingers not impossibly thin // like hers // I’d kiss her spidery legs // forget the hands // who held them in my stead // rip the men they belonged to // from my memory // then from hers // a blankness now // constellation of a growing hunger // if hunger’s want without all that reason painted on // love without a thought // of what to do // with all this stitched-back flesh // made living // made mine
*
Sister
I have a picture of you
wind in your hair
that insatiable look
you took
photos of me
in the bath
wine-dark eyes
spider’s limbs
that would someday fill
with flesh
you could do this thing
with fear
polish it into a blade or guise
of purpose
it confused me
until it didn’t
the single stroke
with which you rewrote
your entire marriage
and then your second one
what would it have meant
to yield
a possibility
you could not name
for ten years
I wondered
is this the end
and many smaller
questions you never got
to answer
*
Marie Landau lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico. A Pushcart Prize nominee, her poems have appeared in the Berkeley Poetry Review, Pictura Journal, Bruiser Mag, Juked, SOFTBLOW, and elsewhere. She can be found on the web at marielandau.com.
