My Sister’s Arm

As little girls

and teens, it was

our favorite sister trick

to trade skin,

so simple to sit

on the sofa,

open my right hand

palm-up on her lap,

her left hand open

palm-up on mine,

arms crossed

in the X of a kiss,

of a chromosome,

the tip of my left finger

perched on her wrist,

her right fingertip

perched on mine.

Eyes closed,

synchronized so as not

to break the spell,

we would slide

our touch slowly, slowly

toward the tender

inner elbow of the other

and back to the wrist

when it would happen:

the eerie sensation

my sister’s arm was mine,

her finger now my finger

stroking my own arm

back and forth,

until we could no longer

bear the awful squirm,

the skin-crawling

truth, that future lie:

we are one—

my arm buried with her

in the mud

when she died,

her arm here

begging for touch

as I type.