She was your sister, a year younger.
Everyone asked if you were twins:
you looked so much alike. Every night
you lay together in the dark,
telling stories, sharing secrets,
talking about your friends, your crushes.
Every morning you’d trade clothes,
ask her, Can I wear your blue shirt?
Should I wash your red sweater?
Every day you’d walk together
to school; then – when there was
no school — from the tent
to the place where you
could get water. Then
from another tent to another place
for water. Still, at night,
your voices accompanied
by the sound of drones, you’d lie
on your blanket together, whispering,
giggling, sometimes crying. Where
is she now? Where did the bombing
take her? Her body so shredded
it couldn’t be found. Only
a few strands of hair
so like your own, you thought
for a moment it was you
who had been killed.
A PhD in psychology, Barrows teaches at the Wright Institute in Berkeley, California, and maintains an active private practice where she specializes in trauma and developmental disabilities in children, adolescents and adults. Barrows has long been an activist for social justice. This and other poems in the series can be found at poemsforgaza.com.
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