Upon the Death of a Sister, Brittleness

In my belly a bowl of constriction,

of awakening to inevitable grief

In my palm a rest for breath but

what is it that brings anger to the market

puts knives in our pockets when we cross
paths, when death reminds us we are mortal

and we scissor up instead of fall to our knees
landscape of sharp rocks

One's stances are prompted by old film

footage, or for another, softer song of river

naps and stars to protect her from what is

incoming at night. The edge of the seat of

unforgiveness is wearing

away. The grain of the true old

wood visible. No splinters but of little

support when holding so tightly

to inextinguishable righteousness.
Out of place. Yet default.

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