My father taught me one thing:
craft. He didn't teach me what
to put in the poems we made
like little origami boxes.
Afternoons we sat in the kitchen
and I made marks where he needed
a comma, where he repeated a word,
where the line didn't break
I used to think that the sadness I felt
was the loss of a sister, her shadow
tugging at my heels, wanting to go
everywhere with me, now that she's
grown younger than I am.
That was before I understood
that when she died,
her spirit was not caught