Sometimes at night
         my sister called to me
                     from across the hall.

I unbraided myself
         from the sheets
                     and stumbled

in my underwear 
         toward her bed
                     with the force

of a bird summoned 
         South for its first 
                     winter. With nothing

to say to each other,
         Mary and I were twin 
                     question marks lying

in the dark where
         no words yet overwhelmed 
                     the path between us.

At dawn our parents 
         rose from their 
                     separate beds

to pry us apart,
         insisting we were 
                     too old to lie together.

So now when I think
         of my sister, I rage
                     silent and sleepless

at thoughts
         of her bruises—
                     her boyfriend in prison

again. I rage 
         with the mute 
                     tyranny of a child

emerging into 
         a language
                     it refuses to understand.