The Witness

I

I am twenty-four. In the dark night,
A motorcycle lies on its side.
Nearby, a worn brown leather cowboy boot
Peeks out from under a light blue blanket.
The toe with fleur-de-lis stitching
Points west where it will never go.
I slink away, putting distance between us.

II

She was thirty-seven, my sister.
Tenacious and determined, held
Captive by her crooked body
But carried by her mind.
Will was not enough to daunt death.
I stroke the hair on her violet arm.
It feels alive.

III

I am twelve. We sit shiva
In the living room for the boy
In the little blue coffin. Curtains drawn.
No lights but the flicker of the TV.
We are like a prayer circle
Heads bowed, eyes closed, still as stone.
But we don’t pray.
I’m not sure if we breathe.