Sister, stranger

By Diya Singh

We were friends; did we not speak the same tongue?

Maybe, in hindsight, you and I were many things. 

I would play your snide, self-sacrificial jester - 

Rid you of all that is grounded and pained, 

Make grand gestures and magic tricks of our shared troubles. 

You would play pharmacist;

Bountiful balms and miracle wonder-drugs, 

All waiting to ease the heartache you felt seeping through my orange knit-sweater. 

I could be talk-show host;

All charm and smooth wordplay, 

reminiscent of an old Hollywood star - I coax you to sleep when your eyes tire of this world. 

You were a rookie chef;

All your recipes to deconstruct my self-loathing and 

Your ornate china dishes with its appetizing garnishes to make love more palatable. 

We were an ever-changing, shapeshifting, metamorphosing 

Set of comets - hurtling in the void of the universe. 

We were inseparable, were we not?

So tangled and convoluted that 

I couldn’t see myself in the mirror 

Without first seeing you. 

Welded steel. Embroidered patchwork. 

How, then, did you do it?

What key did you procure?

What knot did you undo? 

What sword did you unsheath to extricate yourself from us?

We were friends, but before that - 

You and I - 

We were sisters. 

By Diya Singh