by Nancy Swallow Somerfeld
On paper, I had a sister
But none I could call a friend.
Yes, I know Sue was ill,
No fault of her own,
Still, I longed for a pal
Who would know me, get me,
Not the paranoid specter,
The schizophrenia that robbed her
Of the will and faculty to relate, how
To understand, how even to think straight.
Okay, do you think I am not aware
That I hoarded the blessed chromosomes
Leaving her the cursed crazy genome?
I know. I know. I know.
But still. Sue.
Category: Featured, Poetry