Meeting My Other Sister, Mary

Even though she is old now
my mother's womb still dreams
about her.

She is older than me and beautiful
like my other three sisters.

Mom still cries when she sees her.

She’s athletic, but somehow more serious
even more than Jennifer, who writes novels on Christmas cards.

She’s tough and honest, like Will, but can't tell stories
the way that he does. She joins in listening and laughing
sometimes until everything that is bad comes out,
like the rest of us.

She’s curious about God, like I was when I was a child,
and when she reads the Bible she is ferocious with questions.

She can’t sing as well as Katherine, but her voice
is like the creek where we grew up
calming and sometimes a violent lament when it would flood.
She plays piano like Will and I--not well.

Her and Jennifer are the closest. Somehow Maddy feels left out,
and sadder.


Above is the third or so draft of this poem.


Meeting my sister

Even though she is old now
my mother's womb still dreams
about her.

She is older than me and beautiful
like my other three sisters.

Mom still cries when she sees her.

She’s athletic, but somehow more serious
even more than Jennifer, who writes pages on Christmas cards.

She’s tough and honest, like Will, but still silly.

She’s curious about God, like I was when I was a child.
She asks questions.

She can’t sing as well as Katherine, but then, none of us can!
But she does play piano.

Her and Jennifer are the closest. Somehow Maddy feels left out,
and sadder.