Week 5 of 52, 2010 CE

a flank of indecision fishes

swims upstream my arteries

with wispy fins, frail scales and flimsy

caviar eyeballs. lidless.

Age ten I would treasure hunt her bedroom,

rooting around shag carpet crevices for careless coins.

I was found out once: sister shame. I secreted

my guilt and returned to her the $1.85 I’d taken.

hardline teeth, well. enamel, at least.

they're chipped: straight rows

and white like bone, I think. I never

saw a bone of mine to know the color.

Standing at the handed-down dresser, (I got it next)

7 am highschool preparation, she’d eye the mirror and hum

Thessalonians learned in Young Life. hairbrush became “Helmet

of Salvation,” and bras the “Breastplate of Righteousness.”

Her adolescence and my 11 years forgot our shoes,

that Gospel of Peace toward each other

all  too often.

my fishes seem to nibble feed on four

chambers, in and out: my shuddering organ-heart,

flopping frantic within ribbed fabric of body.

piranhic, sharkful. bobbing anxious rip tides.

my fishes and i, we’ve left our harbour.

My sister, now, we giggle. She hugs the ZD Chardonnay

and I steal all her winter sweaters—no,

she gives them me. Sharing peanut butter

m&ms skittling across the bedspread, and midweek sleepovers.

my sea legs suck, and my Dali drawing life

lends itself to landlessness

saltwater sponges up my insecurities.

I, always her ragdoll play-toy, squishy skin and Gumby fun;

we find fast relief in presence. Winter weathers both of us,

but she I envy: her salsa dancing grace and uninhibited laughter.

My favorite though, when she sneaks her ankle undercover

toward my own, sing-songing, “Muffin, I love you.” Then,

despite my flapping fishfin blood re-circulating old worry, and even though

I’ve forever been “No Bones Jones,” I know

a tuning fork would tell a different story.