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My Baby Sister Sleeps

My baby sister sleeps
	in my single bed.
I crawl over her silently,
	and she doesn’t wake—
I lie beside her,
	and turn my face to hers,
	white in the darkness—
	but I can see her features
	in the glow of moonlight.
Her lips are closed, and her eyes—
black eyelashes against round pink cheeks—
her nose still a small baby-nub,
her face smooth and peaceful
beneath tumultuous brown-black curls
that sprawl across her pillow,
beneath the ringlets like springs
that lay
perfectly still
against her unburdened brow.

And I don’t quite believe
that this child is taller than me,
and wears more make-up,
and can say, “Fuck you,” without hesitating,
or that she watches
the older boys smoke
with an unwavering gaze,
on her high school lunch breaks—
that she could be old enough
	to love a man.

I imagine him lying where I lie—
	beside her sleeping and silent body—
I imagine him being bold enough
	to touch her hair
		and neck
	and kiss her forehead.
He would weep
	a thousand penitent tears
for daring to touch
	something so pure
		with his defiled hands.

I touch her now, in the darkness,
and I remember
	being five years old and stumbling
down the stairs
	sobbing from nightmares of dragons and fires 
and slaughtered children,
	and finding my baby sister
asleep in her crib,
    covered in blankets,
	guarded by stuffed animals—
She’s wiser and braver than I already.
I knew then that I would always love her
	more than the stars or laughter or my life.

I smooth blankets over her legs,
pull them up to her chin,
make sure to cover her toes,
and I hear the 
ticking of the clock on the window-sill
as I whisper, “I love you,”
in the moment before my throat clenches
	against the tears.

			--February 19th, 2001