Sister

It lit on the third match, this poem
     for you.
Point your light again on the ceiling, blink
for a good night. I will do anything
for your monsoon rains to return.
In an essay you once told them
you looked up to your brother like no one else.
Sister, I brought what you said
to the pulpit, to my hands
as I told the Deaf about paradise.
I am hurt by my own leaving
like a dragonfly chewing its own tail.
There are days when I hoped I still believed
in the promise of four days
in the power of my own voice
to bring myself up from the dead
to fetch your socks
rain-soaked on the clothesline.