Sisters

Do I do it for myself,
For the one who lives inside me,
like a child, who I take from that
unanointed womb and beat
about the ribs for the feasance
of some worthy expression?

Am I still that child?
Or is she
an appliance for the working out
of some measly sense of self,
a vessel
to culture the finest bits
of sentiment?

Who works for whom?
I was the mother who wanted her
to be my hands in the world.
I bruised her, and watched her recoil
when she found nothing in herself to love.

Now we are sisters sharing the same body,
knowing only who the other used to be.
Now I carry her, or she carries me—
And we look at each other
from across rooms in our self
and wonder when the other will ever
come home.