Sister feels like a word that hurts to say but is easy to write,
like no, or maybe, sorry,
but not the two put next to each other.
When sister leaves, she takes everything with her
She takes the books and the songs but sets her breath in the corners
so you can hear her when you sleep
And when you sleep, sister waits outside your door
wearing clean white slippers
so her footsteps won’t leave smudges on the shiny hardwood floors
Because sister should leave with the songs and the books
but your rooms still needs emptying, their corners swept
And some words still need to be said.