Ties

Our words disguise themselves as black bird bounty hunters,

running the telephone lines between our bedrooms,

taking offense prisoner and demanding jars of tears

for ransom. Hastily, my messengers

leave me for she and the rubber

lines begin to rise, fray and gather

into a blurred mass of curly cassette tape ribbon -never to be restored or replayed.- The birds dangle, strangled by the mangled snarls of misinterpretations and debatable dichotomies. A useless illegible mess waiting to be smoothed, soothed and perhaps even removed.
You can disown me.

My stubborn sister states with the frustrated finality of fragility.

Mother may I borrow your sharpest comb,

your gardening gloves and your best kitchen knife?

I can't de-tangle the ties of my thick knotted no's.

I can only sit here, watching, waiting

for a great wind to blow us back

to when we were girls.