Big sister, tall and black-haired
narrow hips pressed to the cracked sink,
leans into her reflection, blinking
between applications of the tiny brush

Sitting on the toilet seat, I watch
her perfection unfold
memorize pursed lips
awestruck at her power

The lanky boys she kissed and 
turned away, nylon stockings
dangle earrings, blood-red nails tapping 
white piano keys, star soprano

Waiting for my time and turn
I gape and genuflect
settling for honor student

When in the same year
two decades later, we both
divorce, my mother says
Copycat

Limbo—where unbaptized babies go. They can hear
the music of Heaven, but can’t see God.

Slabs of slate, stacked flat, without mortar—
a wall I can’t see through or over. I’m too short,

too old to jump or climb to the top, wouldn’t
use a ladder or step stool.

I can hear old Broadway tunes, Streisand
and Sondheim, Gershwin, “Carmen.”

She plays the ukulele and sings softly, sighs
when she stops. She’s never on the phone.

No laughter. No other voices.
A few years ago, she stopped smoking.

Sometimes I can see the top of her umbrella.
As I do, she walks the wall every day,

doesn’t answer when I call her name.
She’s on the other side, knows I’m right here.

I’ve walked the wall in both directions.
No opening. It goes on forever.

My sister doesn’t want to speak to me.
She likes to throw all her gifts away.
We each have stories of our history.

Mine’s different from the one she sees.
Who knows how it might turn out one day
if my sister doesn’t want to speak to me

about what we remember in our family
and how our parents added to the fray
of the stories of our history.

They spurred on sibling rivalry.
The things she said I said, I’d never say.
My sister doesn’t want to speak to me,

says I’m part of her sons’ conspiracy
to take what’s hers and break away
to tell a false story of our history.

Like all, she has her subjectivity,
holds anger our blood ties can’t outweigh.
My sister doesn’t want to speak to me.
We each have stories of our history.