An ode from the weed to the orchid                                                                                                                                         Natasha Butler-Rahman

I look so much like my sister,

I find her in my straightened hair

And in the soul I used to be

And in the eroded clothes I wear.

I do not see her very much,

Although she’s never far away—

I smell her whenever I perspire,

I hear her in all the words I say.

I search for her in the pits of my peaches

Or holed up behind the walls

I’m gifted her in my father’s speeches

And the lily-white dove’s low call.

I wish I missed her all the more,

I think of her so often.

I find echoes of my sister in department stores

And the gray-faced men of Boston.

I see her in my mother’s palms

And on my mother’s shoulders.

I know she’ll resemble my mother much more

When we both grow older.

I’d like to write a poem for my sister,

To pay her back for having stolen her face.

I am yards of burlap, stapled in bunches,

Imitating sewn-up satin and lace.

I recognize her aching likeness

In the creases of wilted flowers

And I spy her in the nimbus of the candlelight

When our home loses power.

I hear her laughter from my stomach,

I see her muscle in my arms—

Coated in hair and grated by air,

They will keep my nieces warm.

I find us united in the aches of our bones

And the way we wash out in the light,

But other than the skin that we bear

And the furrows of our stares,

To most, we don’t look much alike.