My sister is a cargo plane of Hail Mary’s, Anna, the war zone she circles. Her ravaged daughter won’t let her land, tells her to bail, find some other junkie to save. Fuck off, Anna warns her mother, swears she’s clean, then nods off while driving for Lyft. Four car accidents in as many weeks and none of them Anna’s fault? I know you don’t believe me, Anna cries. My sister is a mercy mission, crammed with Narcotics Anonymous pamphlets, drug test kits, ultimatums and a revolving door. She’s low on fuel, her husband ready to walk, the rest of us at wit’s end. A good mother never gives up on her child, my sister insists. I’m speaking to a wall. Today when she radios air traffic control, again, there’s no place to land. Not a chance, my niece tells her frantic mom when she finally answers the call. For a moment, my sister hovers above her, a crash landing, smashed cockpit, clipped wings. Anna holds her at arm’s distance. She does it because she can.
Anna As War Zone (a sister poem)
