How strange that I told you, after
coming in from play, how I wanted
a sister, had always wanted a sister,
the way children do.
That morning, driving home, the streets seemed achingly
And you, resting, rocking in the basement
near piles of tidily folded linens,
your oval face misting like the iron–
how long after did it hit me as tears?
vacant, like the space between my arms
Imagine, you carried that weight around–
pressed three years of creases
from the unused diapers I’d wear
like a white flag, or a tiny ghost.
Renee Emerson 
thoughts?