My Little Sister Died

[the french these days]

So this is a poem I've had around for a long time. I perform it a lot around town, among others. I figured that I could use some feedback on it to see what other people thought about it. 

A lot Like Sara

I took care of you on boozed up Tuesdays 
layed you down sideways, and let you
tell me stories of the dresses she never wore,
and about the childhood you never had.

I let you tell me of gnarly scars from Harleys 
and the dampness under the bridge 
I let you tell me about quilt clothes, 
and step fathers that looked a lot like purple 
Tuesday nights 

Wednesday
I handed you your sunglasses in the morning, and a pillow at night
learned how to talk to the cops at 10
went to sleep at 11,
and woke to see you working on College while
He screamed at you 

Thursday
You remark about how strong my shoulders 
look in a button down 
as I head out for my new job--but
I had my first cubicle at 8
a nine to five childhood 
shaking half spent bottles into the sink
letting them bleed into swimming pools and sewage drains


Friday 
You Whispered words of 5 miles away
sprayed Raid on roaches that ran over
Thanksgiving dinner, and
On Saturday 
dodged questions of heritage 

I smashed my glasses
so I could stare at you cross eyed
see the world like you saw, pointed and strange
like wet nights under the bridge
As cars swam by flick lit cigarette butts at you 

Sunday
You carved her tombstone 
on your shoulder
around roses,

And on Monday 
swore that you’d only forget on Tuesdays
when the thirst for a daughter became
too much for 40 ounces to fix--but 
you still always made it work
because you saw Sara in every child you saved

Tuesday

I heard you shuffling around at night
reaching for a bottle to hug, 
or maybe that pink photo album 
barely full.
I saw you
cradle that tiny dress to your nose,

and through crossed eyes reach for a bottle
that on Tuesdays, looks a lot like Sara.

[ellz483]

I'm always a fan of poetry that begins and ends in the same place, especially when it comes to storytelling through a poem. I like the final tie-together in the last line--- simple and poignant. In the same vein, given that this is obviously telling a story, I found some of the "moving pieces" a little hard to track. I didn't really follow who the pronouns were relating back to, which made the impact of the characters' actions less than what they could have been otherwise if i had a clean picture of who everyone was and how they were related. Maybe this is just me, but nonetheless, I think it's something to be kept in mind

[Erthona]

Yes, I have to agree, it is impossible to get a handle on who the speaker is referring to, or even if it is the same speaker all the way through. At one point the speaker could be female, at another time a male, "...how strong my shoulders
look in a button down...".
This is probably the effect that happens with a lot of young writers who assume the reader knows what they know, but we don't. We don't know who the speaker is, we don't know who the speaker is talking to, we don't know the significance of what is being said because there is no context.

Best,


dale