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in deeply colored curls
lie her age
unsuccessfully
curling smoke from cured tobacco has fogged her lungs for forty plus
and drawn a permanent pink curl about
her eyes crying age
lovely, heavy topaz and diamond wrap her neck
an insist
on adoration of her wealth
dainty hands, too, carry a burden of beautiful stones
glinting lavishly even in the softened light of three mindless globes above dinner
she sips the poor wine we serve without complaint
the sister in her, the earthly blood we share
living itself out in gracious acceptance of table fare common to her refined taste
a prong of conversation turns to our two brothers she and I complete
as all that’s left from growing up in family
in brevity that protects ourselves, we abandon another listing of being jailed and distant
I comment...we all make choices that limit the depths of life
it is an invite into the depths of God
she balks on these words
and the spit of fire I have always known in her erupts defiantly
a flash across the leftover olive and onions
she decries her independence
gained by her strength
her grasp of responsibility
squandered by those now ceased from loving
she takes a sip of wine and settles back to more casual stances
she does not grasp
what I wanted her heart to hear
from my love of her
from sight within heart
no pique in her interest, her intellect, her grasping hole
the subject changes behind those dulling aged eyes
her point exposed
finished
nothing else to say or ponder beyond the limits in which she rests
but can you rest, my sister, in your self-made
world as your only god
