Today's poem is by Angela Ball

Half-Sister Who Floated Out to Sea
       

A calm day; a few boats
on the water, sails jaunty

as a dandy's pocket square.
In the distance, one cumulus.

Nearer, the promontory
of an island, its bristling crown.

A dog sniffing the shoreline resembled "Tige,"
who used to sell Buster Brown shoes.

The tide spread itself like a delicate shawl.
Every night, in my sleep, my older half-sister

tried to live with me. She thought I would
introduce her to people, men
in particular. Every night

she was bitter, disappointed. I failed
to bring her anything she wanted,
though I asked a man, while fondling him, did he have friends;

and, what's more, seldom asked her to sleep
in her own room with her paintings,
their redolent wet oils.

For my part, I hoped to find generous
friends I could emulate, learn from;

I looked everywhere there was. Found
a cemetery's obelisk; a fire station's
row of high boots.
                                        Meanwhile,
my half-sister held one corner

of my blouse, the one she had declared
a great color for me. Cotton

  voile. I love the word "voile"; I pull it
close.

At Dairy Queen, I ordered for her;
the "Monkey Tail," since her lips wouldn't say it.

Under the sky, the same pine tops, shape
cut by pinking shears.

I take note of days: the one for the number Pi;
various eating contests; eclipses, complete
and partial; the time and place for disposal
of white goods.

How long since she went floating? Long.
I pull on time like clear tape; I reach cardboard;
a new roll begins.

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Copyright © 2024 Angela Ball All rights reserved
from Birmingham Poetry Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission