At twenty you’ve managed to erase
our dad’s face from your own,
blacked out his sharp cheekbones
with roses, marked each eyelid
with an upside-down cross to distract
from his glossy brown irises.
DEATH spreads over
your freckles next to a faded knife.
I envy the stick-and-pokes
sprawled across your forehead,
the sparrow and SEE NO EVIL.
How you’ve buried him in black ink.
My own freckles are a reminder
of every time he left; my eyes
are the color of a leather belt.
I envy how you called me
in the middle of the night
after ten years of us not speaking
and said, You’re still my sister.
The next day you overdosed.
And I cried in the shower,
angry about the way
my hair curled when wet,
in the same way as yours,
in the same way as his.