My Sister’s Bones

The back yard looks like her face.
Flat surfaces
consistent colors
green with envy.
Her eyes were
mud, and she stared
whether she loved you
or hated
you.

I could never catch her when she ran.
Two years too small
and the other kids
were bigger
too.
Sometimes the wind will whisper her name.
I wonder if it’s
mocking
laughing
imitating how I used to
stumble after her,
calling,
unable to fit my feet properly
in her hand-me-down shoes.

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