To my sister
not by blood but by shared insecurity
and dress size
I wish I knew who first told you
your eyes were not bright enough
to blink staccato Morse code love notes to the moon
so I could reverse time and bottle up his words
before they clawed their way to you,
tie them to a skipping stone and
watch them skid across the Pacific before
sinking to the depths where they have no clout
for hagfish have far more confidence than they should.
You of fresh baked terra cotta skin
and a laugh composed of Louis’ trumpet solos
can’t you see you were built with pride
to teach the world to dance again,
to shout from sagging apartment buildings
for the rest of us to pick up our paintbrushes
and splatter the sidewalks with Sam Cooke soul
so everyone walking through town will see
that we are here and we are more beautiful
than downpours in the desert
or the streaks of spilled milk in our galaxy.
You of midnight doughnut runs
and secondhand mandolins
can’t you see,
without your lighthouse eyes we are lost
in triangles of doubt and shame
and sore slumping shoulders,
deaf to our own climbing crescendo symphonies.
Sister
not by blood but by shared revelation
and maple long johns
I wish I knew who first told you
your voice was not loud enough for the sun
to hear you sing so I could chase him outside
with an old corn broom and
sweep away the singed and curling traces of
everything still binding you to fear
just like you did for me.
• • •
Jordan Steele was born, raised, and currently resides in Phoenix, Arizona—a true rarity in a state of transplants. She holds a BA in English from Northern Arizona University and works with vulnerable youth populations, teaching basic life skills and teen pregnancy prevention. Jordan writes poetry mostly for herself, but plans to write fiction as a means to empower the youth she now serves.
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