Tuesday's Child

My dear sweet, little sister;
an annoyance sent by angry storks.
Oh, how with floppy tongues they flock.
She is a nymph and I, Medusa.
If only they would love me the way they love her.

Her room is as pink as embarrassing thoughts.
Cushions flower on her bed like rose quartz.
The curtains flush with a secret,
falling crushed on the carpet.
The only survivor is a nervous wooden door.

I despair of her blushing room.
I want to throw black paint on her walls,
to make a million black holes
and draw out the crimson bloom
like venom from a fraying wound.

Yet, she knows the criticism I give that cuts,
is only out of an older sister’s love.
I remember the night before her operation
she crawled into my bed at 4.00 am
and I held her while she shook.