catapult magazine

A prayer for my sister

by Jill Reid

for Julie

Deep smiling child in happy sunrise,
we held little hands across quick decades
that cast long shadows in the empty spaces
only you could fill.  You have left gaps
in the family
circle   
except for the obligatory
holiday appearance, and even then
you did not come
to the table where waiting palms stayed
vacant and longing, awkwardly hidden
among forks and fear and manners. 

Later on, we all stretched
hopeful fingers your way,
picking you out of a crowd
on visitor’s day, one beautiful
girl in a waiting room of lost
minds.   Trying to find you
inside such sad skin
made us go ghost-hunting  
for the girl who would never
blacken the best
moments of our wholeness
with deeds so dark
as your lovely coffee black
eyes. 

Today, another visit to the edge
of your low
has shredded the last clean
thread to yesterday’s hope
along with wrists that writhe
in the dangle of fresh sliced skins
slits depressed as deep
as a sinkhole soul
that has drained us, each one
of our type A blood,
all the reserve we set aside
for the ever impending rainy day —
though we never thought to plan
for so much bloody rain.

Watching you drizzle like Louisiana
showers solicits one
more desperate round
of prayer for a miracle
more convincing than death,
for Christ’s great Healing hand to clot
the seepage of a broken spirit, turn
your blood etchings into
the first lines
of a redemption story.