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Sister

At five, I thought that she at 14, could protect me
from the glint of the gun in my father's thick fingers.
The shimmer on the cold, black, barrel
like a splinter in my eye.

I crept up the stairs and into her pale green room,
and asked to slip into her queen sized bed,
and under her forest green comforter.

I could sleep on the floor she said.
And without pillow or blanket
I slept on the nylon carpet.

Six months later, my sister escaped,
on the promise of a thumb and her long, straight, brown hair.
My sister wrote her own dialogue.

In families like ours the healthiest person leaves
my mother says today to defend my sister.
I want to remind my mother that at five there is no where to go,
but my mouth
(full of coppery blood from biting my tongue)
is sewn tight with a gleam of steal and nylon thread--
the seams about to bust.

Suzanne Frischkorn
First published in Stirring : A Literary Collection

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