{"id":2240,"date":"2017-08-29T14:01:58","date_gmt":"2017-08-29T14:01:58","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/floridareview.cah.ucf.edu\/?post_type=article&p=2240"},"modified":"2017-08-29T14:01:58","modified_gmt":"2017-08-29T14:01:58","slug":"2240","status":"publish","type":"article","link":"https:\/\/cah.ucf.edu\/floridareview\/article\/2240\/","title":{"rendered":"Sister\/Brother Poems"},"content":{"rendered":"

My Sister Sings Reba at Forty-Three<\/h3>\n

for Shawna<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

To worship the earth, we barefoot down<\/p>\n

to the water because we have never been<\/p>\n

clean, and for this dirty mercy, my sister<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

kneels in her wet suit to the smell of surf<\/p>\n

wax at 7 AM, kneels to the car key stashed<\/p>\n

in the wheel well and the first open eye<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

full of ocean, and yes, Lord, no way around it,<\/p>\n

my sister, today, will accept a broken nose full<\/p>\n

of the granite reef handed down to her<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

by the gods of the southwest swell. By blood,<\/p>\n

by green, by mud, by tide, my sister will be<\/p>\n

held under by the world, but because she swans<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

back to the surface punched out of breath<\/p>\n

but having survived, my sister kneels<\/p>\n

to pray in the key of steel guitar and sunshine<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

to the ripped-down posters of old rodeos,<\/p>\n

to the wet way of hay on a boot heel, to the tush-<\/p>\n

push and the electric slide and the wide<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

mouthful of wild she finds while surfing<\/p>\n

the hot highway home in the back of a golden<\/p>\n

Ford F-150. My sister survives, and you could call<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

my sister the breeze these many July mornings,<\/p>\n

but my sister does not soar like a sky on nights<\/p>\n

when beneath the weight of the pistol<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

in her waist she serves with a police badge of shine<\/p>\n

across San Francisco, for my sister must know<\/p>\n

how a kid\u2019s face caves in on the Fourth of July<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

after a firework has flown half-way through it,<\/p>\n

and my sister must kneel to find a dead father<\/p>\n

in the street on the double-yellow line,<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

to find a runaway daughter, to survive<\/p>\n

a man standing in a creek at midnight, firing<\/p>\n

a rifle at God. My sister knows the trauma<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

as water, the song as rugged, the body as sinking,<\/p>\n

so, Lord, thank you for saving my sister who sings<\/p>\n

with what it means to be the bull and the rider<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

and the war paint melting down the face of a rodeo<\/p>\n

clown, what it means to chase a smile around<\/p>\n

a filthy ring, yes, Lord, to chase the next wave,<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

or the next dance of tight asses in Wrangler pants,<\/p>\n

or a next of kin, or the last long finishing note<\/p>\n

of the evening before loading up the truck<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

with loneliness and heading home because, finally,<\/p>\n

Lord, in the filthy bar, here we are, and, finally,<\/p>\n

Lord, here before us rises my sister like an ocean<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

beside the microphone while muddy lights crumble<\/p>\n

down dirty upon the black cowboy hats of the country<\/p>\n

band, and by brown bottles of California mud, here, the filthy<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

chords are about to start, and my sister saunters up<\/p>\n

in the armor of a leather jacket, of purple lipstick, of steel teeth,<\/p>\n

of burgundy boots, and you who are listening should hold<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

your breath because my sister\u2019s got a tattoo<\/p>\n

of a bull on the wave of her back, and she\u2019s going<\/p>\n

to buck you off, and she\u2019s going to elbow you down<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

deep because my sister knows how long to hold you under,<\/p>\n

and how to save you, and how to kill you, and how to tell you<\/p>\n

someone you love is dead, someone you love is still alive.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

My Heart Is a Time Machine<\/h3>\n

 <\/p>\n

Another brother\u2019s funeral has ended,<\/p>\n

and I must take my body back<\/p>\n

to May of 1999<\/p>\n

to stop the sunshine,<\/p>\n

must begin again in our hotel room<\/p>\n

with the girl<\/p>\n

too drunk on Wild Turkey<\/p>\n

to stand, the girl<\/p>\n

hoisting a full keg<\/p>\n

of Keystone Light<\/p>\n

up onto her shoulder,<\/p>\n

the girl grenading the keg<\/p>\n

through the coffee table,<\/p>\n

the girl leaping up onto the bed,<\/p>\n

the girl taking three fan blades<\/p>\n

to the face<\/p>\n

that send her somersaulting all the way<\/p>\n

through our hotel window<\/p>\n

and onto the sidewalk outside.<\/p>\n

I\u2019ll forgive you for laughing<\/p>\n

as my friend, Devon,<\/p>\n

and I<\/p>\n

and the whole room are now<\/p>\n

because my friend, Devon, and I<\/p>\n

are twenty-five<\/p>\n

and high<\/p>\n

on the same pills<\/p>\n

which will in seven months<\/p>\n

in a different hotel room<\/p>\n

in a different town<\/p>\n

whisper him into a permanent sleep.<\/p>\n

Now that we are here,<\/p>\n

I promise to tell you the truth\u2014<\/p>\n

on this night<\/p>\n

in May of 1999,<\/p>\n

you cannot tell anyone in this room<\/p>\n

in these bands<\/p>\n

with these ukuleles in their arms<\/p>\n

and these floating festival feelings they have<\/p>\n

put into their mouths<\/p>\n

to stop. You can never tell anyone<\/p>\n

to stop<\/p>\n

anything, friends, so you must forgive us,<\/p>\n

forgive them, forgive the drunk girl<\/p>\n

who stumbles back into the room<\/p>\n

and waterfalls down<\/p>\n

another slug of Wild Turkey,<\/p>\n

the drunk girl who only wants the drummer<\/p>\n

to love her, and you must forgive<\/p>\n

the drummer who never will,<\/p>\n

forgive Devon and me<\/p>\n

so deep into a conversation about Roger Waters<\/p>\n

we don\u2019t notice the anger<\/p>\n

the drunk girl gathers in her elbow<\/p>\n

which becomes the shining purple mountain<\/p>\n

over the drummer\u2019s eye,<\/p>\n

forgive us for not noticing<\/p>\n

when their story ghosts like a landscape painting<\/p>\n

silently into the background<\/p>\n

of darkness<\/p>\n

inching toward light.<\/p>\n

Forgive us for not laughing anymore<\/p>\n

because is this hello or goodbye,<\/p>\n

because it is almost morning, and I\u2019m still<\/p>\n

uncertain, because what do Devon and I look like,<\/p>\n

now, leaving the broken window behind?<\/p>\n

Dawn seems to have eased out of us<\/p>\n

something as tender<\/p>\n

as a full head of long hair,<\/p>\n

and I believe we are whispering<\/p>\n

about the opening guitar solo<\/p>\n

of the Wish You Were Here<\/em> album, now,<\/p>\n

or the album is playing<\/p>\n

somewhere, now, and we are<\/p>\n

sneaking so quietly<\/p>\n

through the courtyard, Devon<\/p>\n

and I, as the soundmen<\/p>\n

breaking down the festival stage<\/p>\n

wind up their cables<\/p>\n

like kind fathers<\/p>\n

tying their daughters\u2019 shoes,<\/p>\n

as the drunk girl snores<\/p>\n

on the drummer\u2019s lap in a pool chair,<\/p>\n

and Devon walks in front of me<\/p>\n

with the almost finished bottle<\/p>\n

of Wild Turkey in one hand<\/p>\n

we are passing between us.<\/p>\n

There is a joint for the both of us I am licking,<\/p>\n

and when we round the corner and stare straight<\/p>\n

into the Pink Floyd sunrise,<\/p>\n

forgive me, friends,<\/p>\n

there is always an instant<\/p>\n

every time I am telling this story<\/p>\n

when I get here<\/p>\n

that I want to be the one disappeared<\/p>\n

by light who never was<\/p>\n

because no one wants to be what\u2019s left over,<\/p>\n

and what\u2019s left of this morning?<\/p>\n

Hello or goodbye?<\/p>\n

I seem to be saying both,<\/p>\n

we are almost finished, and forgive me<\/p>\n

again for going back so often, my friends,<\/p>\n

but I need you to squeeze inside<\/p>\n

my blood and help me remember this<\/p>\n

final sunrise in which Devon<\/p>\n

is taking off his shirt<\/p>\n

and letting down the blonde rainforest<\/p>\n

of his hair and dancing<\/p>\n

to the music that is only in his head,<\/p>\n

and one-by-one the waking people<\/p>\n

are coming into the field to join him,<\/p>\n

a flock of musician women and men<\/p>\n

dancing barefoot circles in the dirt<\/p>\n

to \u201cShine On You Crazy Diamond\u201d<\/p>\n

playing only in my friend\u2019s head,<\/p>\n

and my friend Devon is spinning around<\/p>\n

silently in the center of all of us,<\/p>\n

playing the bottle of Wild Turkey<\/p>\n

like a saxophone,<\/p>\n

like a last photograph,<\/p>\n

like a parting metaphor,<\/p>\n

like a sentimental machine<\/p>\n

which is in very few moments<\/p>\n

of monumental pressure<\/p>\n

strong enough<\/p>\n

to stop time.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Please also see our review of Sommers’ first book, <\/a>The Night We Set the Dead Kid on Fire.<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

To worship the earth, we barefoot down \/ to the water…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"featured_media":2241,"template":"","categories":[9,49,119],"tags":[324,325,330,328,331,332,283,333,201,334,335,336,337,338,339],"class_list":["post-2240","article","type-article","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-aquifer","category-literary-features","category-poetry","tag-atascadero","tag-california","tag-drugs-and-drinking","tag-ephraim-scott-sommers","tag-friendship","tag-loss","tag-mortality","tag-pink-floyd","tag-poetry","tag-police-work","tag-reba-mcentire","tag-shine-on-you-crazy-diamond","tag-siblings","tag-surfinng","tag-wish-you-were-here"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nSister\/Brother Poems - The Florida Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/cah.ucf.edu\/floridareview\/article\/2240\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Sister\/Brother Poems - 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