Swallowing Stones

My sister is heavy with thought and accident.
Hung with circumstance
and too old now to be lifted.
Alone in her body,
taunted,
taut with another.
I do not know how clean
this blade can leave her,
how deep decision will scar,
with lacerations still in our skin.
Her hands should be held,
her womanÕs form cradled,
her dark eyes damped and dried.
This should be
smoothed from her brow as sweat ,
as salt from my face falling on her.
Innocents slit upon the altar
christened murderesses, suicides.

-Ginger Pierce Davis