I snuck in later to jiggle her crib
hoping to bring her out of her pale sleep
on her first day home so Mother would lift
this mystery from its roost where it keeps
its secret origin. This tenderest
shoot already flung into sibling-love’s
dangerous embrace is the last youngest.
She would suffer much in the years to come
born in that position, easily lost,
easy-natured, a little wild, and some
say, that’s a consequence of being bossed
and Mother’s regret she wasn’t a son.
Among us, she may have been the sweetest
but learned to love too well our mistreatment.
