My sister, you wrote to me
from your laid bare dying bed
Dotting eyes and crossing tees,
just trying to reconcile me
And what sweet words could I
transcribe
to ease this passing bind,
or tie it all together,
to justify
the difference between our minds?
Ironing a crease,
driving great distances to never
forget,
to not make words on a screen
the last
moments of being reconciled
If words were passed along
in years fixing foundations in
caste,
each person’s a niche in an
imperfect union
My sister, older and wiser,
administrator of black-white
protectionism,
your questions that day, they
cut
across and burned a hole in my
screen,
planted resentment and guilt
to swallow in your memory
A seat in silence for many years,
strapped to the point of convex,
molded my mind, mending time
in unraveling the explanation
you were seeking
The justification of divergent
paths,
of politics, philosophy, chains
of events,
still unraveling so many years
on,
after passing
So many worlds apart from that
place,
sans the shade of reconciliation,
sans stain of justification and shameMM 2/17
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