Homecoming
The morning Sara steals for Honduras
from Houston with the benefit of English,
a brown thrasher, more oatmeal than boulder,
darts through the briar like a startled fish,
snouting about the thick thorny thicket
for beakable blackberries knowing there’s none.
A small rain. The slow sound of a spigot
that spritzes palms open to cleansing runs
down the broken-white-brick where the littlest
of my two little sisters takes her life
far from the bonnets rolling blue through Texas.
If three years pass, she might return as a wife,
mother, source of pride - but certainly this:
the same stupid sister no brother could miss.
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