Photograph

For sisters, the photographs
of dead siblings are anything
but temporary.

The worn edges, the creases
and the small cracks
are where we cry away
the last of our bitterness, and blindly
surround ourselves with diversions.

Inflatable memories that we guard
with the heaviness of simply being,
are the last of the tender breath
of something loved so deep
that we can never let go of.

Sisters of dead siblings
can find traces of little boys, long gone;
in the vacant eyes of homeless men,
and in the noise of a railway station,
sisters can be astounded at the voice
of our far away gone-safe harbor.

Survivors never mean to be
the miscellaneous left overs,
solutions to instant catastrophes.

Who and what gets left behind,
never means to be the sullen outsider,
or the answer that can be counted on,
and we never mean to be the last one
standing stoic at the end of the evening.

Sisters who have lost siblings,
never meant to lose themselves as well.