You went temporarily blind
somewhere in the Black Hills.
July 1989:
Through two days of driving
you dozed in the passenger seat,
dried contacts sticking to your eyes,
and woke with sclera pink as candy,
lids limned with saline, matted and swollen.
In the damp darkness
we came to the campground,
and you had to be led from car to tent.
I, the only other “lady” in our family,
took you to the Ladies’ Room;
waited, as you had always done
beside the sinks, keeping up a flow of talk
for you to follow like a string.
Then I brought you back to bed
through the obstacle course of trailers and grills,
smug in my needful function.
I was nine.
We had reversed.
Once I was no more of you
than an eyelash, a strand of hair;
a minute Eve stemmed from your surplus.
Your need splits the last root.
I can hear you sigh behind me,
watching one rebellious leg
run off on its own.
I am still yours,
still something I’ve stolen.
