Before I Lost Her

Each night I put my sister to sleep, the kids,
playing dodgeball outside in the dark with dry hands,
made a racket on the pavement, as though trying to break
some unsaid rule. I remember their eyes
growing wide in the dark and shining like keys,
eyes that darted around, as if looking for something lost.

My sister hated me, I could see it in her eyes.
I never let her play outside after dinner, worried she’d get lost
out there in the dark with the raggedy kids
who wore, on dirty strings around their necks, keys
and stayed up all night to watch the sun break
over the horizon, leaving behind smudges like pairs of hands.

Every night before dinner I made her clasp her hands
and pray, insisting she close her eyes.
She had a tendency to break
out of formation, mid-prayer, looking lost
like a little girl, her face white as piano keys;
I told her she wasn’t like other kids.

In our neighborhood, the kids
broke stuff, and lit cigarettes with trembling hands
looking to violence to find the keys
to mucking through life with wide eyes
that always look lost.
I didn’t want her to know how easy it is to break.

In the mornings I would break —
eggs to make an omelet for her. The kids
shuffled outside the window, like lost
birds. They skipped school and talked with their hands
pushing each other down until from their eyes
tears sprang. Their eyes shone through the tears like keys.

My little sister never forgave me for hiding house keys,
for thinking that she would break
if she ever escaped the view of my eyes
and for telling her that she wasn’t like other kids
and for never letting her talk with her hands.
I was horrified at the idea of her becoming lost.

She was, like keys, something that could be lost.
Her hands used to tremble so badly I thought they would break.
She wasn’t like other kids. Secrets consumed her eyes.