It’s time for you to be born.

But I’m twenty years old.

And it’s time to stop the war with your parents.
It’s not eighteen-sixty-one anymore.
I saw you yesterday
when you threw stones into the fish pond.
I wondered what you were thinking.

There are still lies up there.
Every time I throw stones into murky water,
I feel like I have to plunge my hands into it
and pull them out again.

Don’t touch them.
I’ll pull them out for you.

I threw away the bandages
and my old nylons.
I tore the sleeves off my clothes.
I found the shoes that you kicked off
underneath the blankets last night.

I heard you laugh.

You didn’t hear me cry.
I learned how to do that—
to control my breathing
so you wouldn’t know.
You can have the laugh.
It’s yours anyway.

I wanted to dance with you
but I was afraid I’d scrape the wounds.

I wanted to ask for a hug,
but I was afraid
my blood would stain
your fuzzy blue sweater.

I don’t want my hands to seem assuming.

I don’t wear this cross for my sister anymore.
I wear it for you.

Only you know what you’ve lost.
I’ll never read the pages
you tore up and threw away.
I’ll never know what you didn’t say
when you watched the world from
the passenger’s side
of my old blue Cavalier.