First Apology to My Sister

I don't always mean reconciliation

when I say our names together.

Sometimes a story just retells itself,

like the time our father waited until July

to burn the Christmas tree, matted orange

pine needles lifting into sharp flames.

We weren't afraid then. Even when

the blaze touched the telephone wires

and he swore at his hands, we drew

our excitement into our lungs,

filling them with black, secret air.

Now I find myself smaller than expected

and hesitating to touch the fact

that I may never learn how to peel

potatoes, the whole table going hungry,

or how to keep hot wax from spilling on you

as we sing Silent Night, or how to build

a snow fort that won't collapse

on our family, face-down in the front yard.

I am afraid that it will always be Christmas time,

a match forever suspended between my hands

and what you've chosen for your bed.

Dear Sister, this isn't what I hoped to give you this year.

I gathered the State Fair for you: the giant yellow slide,

prom queens, Arabian horses, lemon shake-ups.

But I can't reconcile with the snow.

A child of July, I've inherited the instinct to save

until my cargo is long out of season,

but I never intend to release such tornados

so much as to swallow the fireplaces whole.