for my sister Lydia

In the winter, I always walked two steps ahead of you,

boots sinking into the white mouth of snow, to make room

for your tiny feet. We propped up our cold-bloated, bluing

socks on the heater afterwards, wincing as we melted to glee.

Your warmer hands reaching for mine. Toast your paws?

you asked, shining with laughter. And enveloped me in glow

of your grasp. In this way we were always giving: clearing

the blinding-bright frost, sharing warmth when the whole world

was winter. Perhaps this was the beginning of the blade.

Perhaps if we weren’t used to huddling so close together

to survive, I wouldn’t have made my sadness so famous

in the space of your lungs. Wouldn’t have seen you

flash, flare, tremble, a birthday candle without the song,

every time grief shot its flame through my brain. Love

is passed down by our mothers; anger and resistance, too.

I asked for too much, too fiercely, and gave too much to you:

swollen soul scooped out with both hands, shaken fiercely

into your small mouth. Truth is, there are still nights I pray

just to somehow sister you better. When all I want is for your feet

to keep dry and lead you someday safely home. Little one,

little love, small and hot as a coal in the dull oven of my heart.

Yours are the footsteps I listen for, crunching ice and pine needles

in the dark. Yours the animal I sheltered, and wounded in spite

of my pain. If yours is the softness that flays my eyes with salt,

yours also, the glow in the chimney that keeps me alive.

Will you wait for me, someplace where you can stay warm?

I will press through the gloaming to find you. I will wade

through islands of drifting white cold, to learn how to turn

into summer. As white loosens to water, as snow melts to song,

I will walk before you and to you all winter long.