Joshua Eric Williams

A Song for My Sister at Dusk

The wild fluttering wings

me, sister. April’s growing

wild around my porch,

around the roads that took

your life, but not fast enough.

You died today, a week

after your birthday, a year

after your accident,

the month our mother died,

the wind still circulating

traces of her voice.

They are lullabies now,

the faint and lilting speech

perceived in quiet grief.

Your words are with me too.

I cannot cry for you.

Not yet, not while I should,

because the city is

as loud as ever. I

imagine there’ll be time

when I’m alone to cry,

when you’ll return to me

in dreams, in childhood’s swings

zooming in, fading out.

I miss you, but I can’t

cry for you now. Not yet,

because the city is

as loud as it was when

we played along the street,

the cars lighting your face

at dusk—and going in,

still hearing horns and brakes

that echoed our laughing screams.

I hope there will be time.

Forgive me if there’s not.

© 2019 Tapestry, Annual TAMUK Women & Gender Studies Journal

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