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Write a poem about me,

I want to see how you see

Me, she said. As if it were

an easy thing to produce–

Like a photograph,

Or your child’s crayon drawing,

Mother, father, sister, brother–

Stick figures, holding hands

Under the sun, and a tree

Full of red circles.

Okay, I remember the line.

It was an imaginary one you drew

To divide our shared bedroom.

You and your crap, there

Me and mine, here–

Of course, I’m paraphrasing,

Taking liberties in my poem

At your expense. And already

I can hear you arguing:

She was a slob,

She was annoying,

I wanted to be an only child.

What does it matter now?

Here we are forty years later,

Drinking wine and chatting

About poetry. You, eventually,

Got your own bedroom,

And life happened to you

Apart from me.

So much life.

We rush away, don’t we?

Or, at least you did–

And then, you were back,

But more broken.

Sister, Tell me

What other word could envelop

So much fighting and jealousy,

Yet, describe this need I have

To confide in you, too?

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