9 Prayers for 2 Daughters (WIP)

I. December 17, 1991

I came into this world between two legs
of doubt a mouth stretched to scream
then sewn shut, as I cried out against
glass walls your echo

II. Miracle Baby

I am the second daughter to live
the third to be born.
Emptiness: the cocoon I slept in,
for 9 months between your prayers
I held my breath, grew my chest
to fill  the aching.

I was in the room
when the doctor’s sentence came
She’s too small
I was in the room that night
to rock with you
in your weeping.

My miracle child you would tell me
you are
My miracle
child

III. Oaken Bucket Drive

After you left, everything shifted but the furniture.
Dad would say, “your Mother was always better
at figuring out what goes where, so why change it up?”

I think,
he just couldn’t let that part of his life go.
He could be so—certain
about people.

It must have been difficult being with someone
who had a clearer picture for your life than you did.
Even still—you tried to make it your own.

I remember,
Hanging a garden box by the bay window,
for our herbs to grow.
Floral prints on a couch with a pull-out
for when Nanny stays
Bright yellow wallpaper laid, in the kitchen
like the one back home.
A large glass table in the dining room,
for when guests would come.

But the soil in Memphis was sandy,
none of your plants took root.
And the drive from Pittsburgh was long
we didn’t receive many guests.

It was the four of us, with a fifth on the way
filling spaces made with different plans in mind.
Daily, our routines set you as a fixture.
Slowly, our words grew muddied and drawled,
so foreign to your Mother’s—tongue each word
deepened her absence.

Oaken Bucket Drive was where
I received my name.

Oaken Bucket Drive was where
you lost yours.

My sister and I never say it aloud,
but deep down, I think
we understand.