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I think of my sister—
older, sly, always vicious:
“Life is a bitch. Then you marry one,”
she told us all.
Lately, lost in fear,
gone to fat from pills and illness,
she slams and slurs
the Other (the boss, the Mexicans)
that would steal her life.
Raised out of sight of absentee parents,
she saved me twice:
pulled me choking from a pool,
harassed me into rehab.
Fourteen years of sobriety
and I haven’t spoken to her in four.
Stoned on pain meds, she argued
“You owe me,” in our last conversation.
I cursed the lie, hung up the phone.
I owe no debt to family
I paid my dues at birth.
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