It's an honor to post this poem by a different kind of veteran.
Survival Sister
If you transported me back in time,
when we shared a damp sleeping bag,
your tiny popsicle toes scratching into the backs of
my warm bent knees
with stars for a roof and no walls of support
when those tiny toes kicked my sterilized top bunk
from your bottom bleached fort at the homeless
shelter while mom flirted for escape,
inevitably finding us a leather
stepfather across the clanging room of
metal cafeteria food
when you made yourself my backpack
as we cowered in the corner, my
concave chest failing to expand into the
puffed out superhero stance I sought to
protect you from the bloodshed
If you had told me then,
with your little voice that had yet to
learn it’s ‘r‘ sounds.
If you had taken my scarred young face
in your tiny speckled hands, two sets of
matching Bambi eyes that continued to
watch our mother dying from this
disease. Eyes that stared deep into a future of
burnt hope, determination rising from the ashes
of the cigarette burns in our 25-cent tights that
never took us to ballet class.
If you had told me then that I would be kneeling
before you, painting rainbows on your glorious
pregnant belly as your first born miracle danced
glittery pirouettes around our 40-year bond.
If you had told me then, my Survival Sister.
Then I would tell you…
it’s all going to be ok.
