How we remember the hands

It must be in two different homes then

that we grew up.

The roof over our heads,

the food on our table, the clothes on our

backs, the school bags, the tiffin boxes,

the room we drew over us, all have

parted ways in how we remember the

hands –

nourishing or beating the crap out of us.

Remembrance of one obliterates

the other. You, my sister,

see the one and I the other

neither knows how to say it was both.

It was crappy as hell and the only love

we have known that leaves us

lonely and starving

in different ways that we live

our lives under different roofs now