of: Claire

my niece is not yet born, but i have plenty to tell her

she is still nestled in that warm place 
of my later-in-life sister, who was not born from
the same womb, but who cried the same nights in 
our early twenties - red-faced and mad as hell 
at god, broken as old town potholes and as
hopeful as seaside towns, stubborn with 
sandbags and resigned to rebuild -

though she is not yet born, she has already danced
to the Nutcracker in my dreams, crossed her arms
and scowled like her mother at my low credit score,
giggled at my clumsy attempt to speak quietly -

those moments like dna hold her mother and i 
together - nights when we laughed loudly and painfully
to cover up the sound of us scratching
our scabs becoming scars under the kitchen table -
plates full of carbs cheaper than 
sweet tea in the south - and our stomachs warm 
with bad moscato - tragically still, cheaper,

she is not here yet, but i want to tell her: 
i’m sorry you’ll get no cousins from me, i feel the need
to explain to her: i’m not like your mom - sure and calm,
older and steadier, like the way hills roll but mountains rise -
to reassure her: though auntie is more likely to nurse a night out,
she will still be there as your mother winces as you first learn
to latch, though auntie can’t stand any shade of red, she will still
cradle you in pale pink and whisper while your mother,
my sister, sighs - exhausted and elated - that

you’re finally here

and i want to tell her, even before her first birthday:
i can help hold some weight, like your mother held mine 
and to warn her: if your secrets hurt, they become
your mother’s too, i will tell her: even if mom and dad
don’t give you a sister on your fourth christmas, or 
whenever you inevitably ask - i’ll help you find her - 

for once, sure and calm: in the way your mother
has appeared before me, surely a sister will do so for you,
to advise her: find your sisterhood, and after you do,
celebrate them, as your mother has done for me,

find the women who would have been burned
let down your wispy light-brown hair - curled at the ends
like cirrus clouds, and ride with your sisters to the moon,
dance like you’ve never needed, and give with gratitude
in the way your mother does, and how she has taught me,

and finally, C, when you do find your sisters:
don’t wait to laugh with pain, don’t tally who spills
the first tears, dare each other to scratch your scabs
above the table and, especially, never be scared to
do even better
than your mother and me

“as in illustrious, or enlightened” - published in-print & online by Voices (Midwestern State University), 2019-20