Sheila
 
You are dead, an old woman.
And I have not kissed you
with all the violence I should,
all the fierce jealousy due
a more beautiful sister.
 
If we had been young together
we would not have been friends.
You had friends to spare, and I
would read alone on the hot grass
by the court
as you volleyed their serves, swung
the full weight of your hair.
 
In love with you like a boy
that summer, I'd trace your name in the earth
between blades, long
for something I couldn't name or resist:
violence, perhaps, or a kiss,
or you for a sister.