It's another May.
My twentieth May.
I want to say who knows
how I got here, but it's not true.
It was by being the exact opposite of you.
At the East End Food Co-Op,
a bearded volunteer
asked me what I write about.
"My sister." First thought, simple.
But back then, you barely
crossed my mind.
Now you're harder to escape.
I didn't think sixteen to twenty would make such a big difference.
I see you in Petunia and Lily,
the sister that got away.
Do you have a sister when she's dead?
I see you in Fred and George,
faces you pinned to your cork board.
Do you remember laughing at the screen for hours?
Staring out my window onto Tåsingegade,
I can't build caring muscles
no matter how many memories I lift.
And it doesn't do to reminisce.
This October, you're invited to my brother's wedding.
Maybe you'll turn up with him on your arm.
Six months was a milestone with your last boyfriend,
but six months is just around the bend.
When you look me up and down,
You won't recognize a freckle.
Won't know how long it's been since I
plucked my eyebrows, painted your walls,
or made a grilled cheese. You're on your own,
and as much as he tries to pull us together,
this tape
is not double sided.
