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Her Sister's Keeper

Eight weeks and two days now
since she died and every Sunday I'm drawn back here
for another visit
not to mourn with you for there's not a flicker
of grief in your eyes 
no recognition of who she was 
though for a while there
you called her your mother and that suited her 
just fine anything you wanted just so long as you could hold on
to one strand one tiny life line
but now there's not even the child you had become 
and I wonder
if she didn't take you with her
standing off to the side 
the both of you just looking on
holding hands with your mama and daddy
and all the fading relatives you never knew except in photos
who gather round silently as I run warm water
over the washcloth
and open your gown to bathe 
your beautiful breasts 
wiping away the egg and grapejuice stains 
before I kneel in front
of the wheelchair and spread your spindly legs
to move in close with my chest
against
the wet diaper and whisper again how it was never her but you only you
as I place your nipple between my lips
and try to imagine 
your gentle smile is meant for me

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