this is a poem for my sister

it was autumn, when she sat across my mom and dad at the dinner table. i imagine, the light was soft. she didn’t eat her peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch. the house turned haven. my family turned coordinates. a misshapen triangle between three bodies. just loose wheels teetering, trying to make sense of words that will never make sense. mom measures the weight of a threat. mom says, just go to school tomorrow. dad keeps quiet, picks at a scab on his left hand. i think of my sister’s hands, how they must have been shaking. i think of a boy who lives on a farm i pass on my bicycle every day. his small plea, his stolen grief. his want, more than anything to be big and noticed. i think of my sister again. knee deep in the fear of before. the buildup before something terrible happens, an unbearable crescendo. my sister reminds mom that she is a good hider. that she knows to survive is to stay quiet. i think of my sister at four years old. curled up under my flower rug, only giggles gave her away. once she hid so small, so hushed we couldn’t find her. the cops came, i remember the flashing lights. the terror in mom’s voice, begging for her baby back. maybe, stay until fourth period, mom suggests, your classes are all on the first floor, right? no, no the driveway dips down by the parking lot, so the fall would be longer from the window in history class, if it happened then. wouldn’t that hurt? yeah that would hurt. it’s better then the alternative, i guess. should we be scared without proof? should we turn away? should we scream? haven’t we always been screaming? since columbine? since sandy hook? since today? this could never happen here, not us, no way. not our cornrow town. not our from scratch, quiet town. never us. until it is.