I woke my whole childhood to the sound of waves
and silently counted one tide to the next
the rest of the day. I went to sleep those years
watching stars wash up the beach. I can't remember
my sister's smell, which was something
like the woods surrounding our cabin in Maine
when the sun is sinking as she sets the table for dinner,
but I fully recall the feel of her cheek in my hand.
After they'd snaked a shunt from her thigh
to her brainstem, I played with the scar,
said "caterpillar" and watched for a response.
Eventually, I'll pile these sheets of paper
high enough. The morning of her funeral I watched
a sunrise colored less of a bruise, more of urine
left to stale overnight in the bowl. I searched
the sky reflected in the casket handle for a cloud
shaped like her face. I've held her cheeks in my hands,
made the mouth between smile. I've told her stories
to strangers in first person. There are no good poems
to read at a sixteen year old's funeral. I can
remember tides, bows of her Christmas presents,
the last strands of hair, wind on my cheek
that night, each cigarette for two years, singing
Aretha to keep her up one more hour. I can't yet
remember enough. Alone and drunk, I've pissed
her profile in snow banks. For years I've heard her
telling me not to cry, to sing some more. Every day
I calmly risk my life to stop from lying.