Sitting With Mother & Sister as Medicine
The lightning scar from 2008 slices through
the backyard maple and finally catches the
4 pm sun, skinnying down in the bark a little.
I’m growing fond of the rhubarb patch like
she’s an auntie who always carries sweet
things in her purse. Sour lemon candies,
those round striped coins of peppermint,
small ribbons of red hot cinnamon gum.
It’s finally April and her leaves
belly out more each day. The grass is
from God’s dream — the green of apples
and lime flushed open with the sun’s breath and
glowing like a million slips of moon.
My mother’s hair is quicksilver, the little
strings of it flying up in the wind’s nimble
dances. My sister carries sunny
constellations with her — they
are always telling stories across her
nose and cheeks. Under the porch table,
our toes are peach slices warming in
the sun. I see a thousand small fingers
on the maple wiggling out in tiny folds of
green. She grows more hands each year
and we never have to tell her to keep
going. Here, many miracles silently
birth more miracles. Here, our backyard
is woman. She continues to fill up
the birdbath and swallows millions of
seeds with her endless stomach.
She has a womb, too, and
we are lucky enough to all hold hands
inside it when we pray.
