I look at you now and see our hate fizzle into nothing. Life serves us lukewarm tea and Burpee catalogs, babies, and I cannot find anywhere the blue smolder of your eyes or the hot stream of you pissing in the houseplants. You were everything then. Coming drunk into the house, sister, you were the house. You became walls and darkness and indigestion. You were the running of toilet water and the slap of vomit into it. Screaming and all mouths that opened to that sound. You were nails that held the carpets down and feet pounding over them. My life and the beating of it from me. You didn’t like me then, my pink cheeks and blouses, my quiet weakness. I look at you now and see the green lawn outside your house and the children that burst from you. You look at me now and say you love me, and I wonder: Is this love? The dying away of all else. Today your eyes are not oceans or rivers but simple pools. In your house I always think of liquor, tight and hot in its slender containers, how it burns the delicate throat, sliding its way down into nothing.