The light from the porch is like a floodlight, looking for bodies, my body
sitting next to my little sister’s body, which is shaking because she is crying
because she
is heart
broken,
I want
my sister
to feel
whole again, I want her to be happy. We keep lifting beers to our mouths like
weightlifters lifting very small weights. I want her not to suffer but also I don’t care.
I’m like
a mom
that way, the way
a mom is
happy
to have her
kids back in the house, no matter what, no matter the illness or shame, no matter
if they are back because they have failed, just happy
to take care
of them,
them, pretend
they are little
again, like me
with my sister, never wanting her to leave the porch, opening beer after beer
so she’ll stay, never wanting her to stop being here, and because I am selfish and afraid of
death, I’m fine
with her being
pulled apart
by grief, I’m fine
with the world
pulling her under, and I’m saying yeah I know, I’m so sorry, but really
I’m thinking let it be like this forever, let her cry and cry,
let her struggle
if it means
I get to hold
her, if it means
we never stop
drinking.