Sisters

The summer at the drop-off, the summer
when the boat floated to shore
with no one on it, the summer
a stranger on the street
spat in my face,
every summer when
my sisters were my comfort,
my sisters to whom I confessed
my regrets. My sister who would
say: Just breathe, just as
my other sister
would say: Just listen.
I listened for them both,
and when I answered the phone
the call didn’t come
from either of them and
I was on the floor
like someone trying to find safety
away from smoke.
I must have been breathing, of course,
although I no longer had sisters.
And now my sisters are at the airport
with no one to calm them or claim them,
and they are alone with strangers,
and no remedy occurs to me,
to take an Uber, to call a taxi—
and I am walking in what might be
the wrong direction
with others like me,
and I am hoping that
if there’s a form of
consciousness after life
it’s not like this—
our panicked running,
unaware of even
the simplest solution,
that is, I have to hope
death isn’t too much like life,
for I’ve left my sisters alone
and they are waiting for me,
and I am walking as fast as I can
while they are waiting and waiting,
and I will
never, never, never get there
even if I had died first.