Death dropped its guillotine on my sister.
She wouldn’t have seen it coming – she’s blind.
Was blind: I haven’t got used to the tense.
I confuse those still living with those past.
What gets me through the evenings is drink.
Ironic, that, since drink is what killed her.
I’m guessing it’s unlikely you met her.
We were close, I think, though I’ve no other sister
To compare. Small, curly-haired, fond of a drink,
She was, by the end, officially blind:
A woman so bright that nothing got past
Her could see only when the light was intense,
Which made every excursion a tense
Affair, for others as well as for her,
Her hand clutching your arm as you steered her past
Banana skins and cracks. But my sister
Was tough, didn’t whinge about being blind,
Was cheery and stoical until drink
Took over, when all she’d want was more drink,
Cheap wine mostly, not just to feel less tense
But to black out the knowledge she was blind
Then fall asleep till nothing could stir her.
There she’d be, out like a light, my poor kid sister,
Immune to her children (though she loved them past
Words), overwhelmed by a habit passed
Down through the genes. I too like a drink,
You see, we’ve that in common, my sister
And me, a weakness for booze, I make no pretence
About it, in a way I’m weaker than her
Since I’ve no excuse, it’s not like I’m blind
And needing solace, whereas she went half-blind
When her kids were small… All that’s in the past
And if ever I get angry and blame her
For deserting us I tell myself that drink
Gave her no choice: the need grew too intense
And night dropped its guillotine on my sister.
Because of drink she’s in the wrong tense.
I had a sister, who was stoic and blind.
Now she’s past and I write poems for her.
