conversations

On a train that heads south,

my sister and I talk of love,

I tell her the feminine knows to let die, as it knows to let live,

she says I am quite harsh,

I tell her how sacred it is to me, all of it, I tell her how one must guard beauty, how sometimes it is all that can be kept, I tell her how honorable it is really.

She tells me she does not see things that way.

On the train that heads south, I am facing backwards; the windows flash with everything that my back is turned to.