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Sister
When we shared the same bed, I’d wake to your absence.
I’d watch you at the dresser before dawn
brushing your hair. You never hid from me:
your mole, your white breasts. The day you left home,
I rode my bike hard and way past dark. Without you
I feared pennies pressed against my eyes.
It’s not that I don’t think of you now,
tending your spring tomatoes while I still shovel snow.
Months go by before I pick up the phone, and most days
it doesn’t seem strange that you never do—
until I see my daughters,
asleep and holding hands, their braided legs. 
San Antonio Dogs
Sister