Sister Poetry

Frenzied to a churning
gray-green boil
you always find some
massive rock to beat against
or some stretched shore
lying ready
-like a mammoth sponge-
To soak up your spill.

I draw my collar closer round
my rage, button in
my pain, and walk the long
gray streets
quietly-on crepe soles-
always careful to nod
and smile
and ask,
“How are you doing?”