A Poem For My Twin Sister Poem by Daniel Brick

Once I thought it would be easy
to write a poem for you. So I tried
and failed. That was a setback, and
what's more, I knew it. So I tried again
and failed again. There is no name for
that second failure. Language protects us
by leaving big gaps between words, and
the truly frustrating experiences are
dropped, nameless and bereft, into those
crevices. I haven't been told what happens
next, but I don't care about the fate
of things with no names. Names are
the handles we grasp to lift experiences
into consciousness. Everything must be lifted
at some point in its existence; everything
must move, or be moved. Hearts must be moved,
or they shrivel up and fade away. Minds must
be moved, or they become bored and listless.
They fade away even faster than hearts do.
That's why there are so many passionate ignorant
people in the world today. I don't intend to be
insulting, I just keep bumping into unpleasantries.
Have other poets, committed to writing a poem
to a sibling, faced such detours, false leads,
dead ends? This task is losing its visionary
focus. We poets are at our best when a vision
guides us, and we articulate it in figurative
language which brings the composing to an end.
That means closure for us, but the reader's
ordeal has just begun. I wish I could save you
from all of this!

Let me try the Path of Memory. You are the mother
of three and the grandmother of seven, and you are
approaching our seventieth year with both roles
shining like a beacon light of hope in your life.
There is no tribunal, or institute, or even gathering
of peers to measure your success. This is an experience
without a name, or perhaps too many names cluster
around it, and have lost their luster and tumble
one by one into one of those crevices between words.
What is left for you to grasp and bring into conscious
life? Oh, finally I can give a decent answer
to a decent question! Recall those family gatherings
for many years you planned, prepared, served and hosted.
Recall how everyone ate their fill, and engaged in
'talking a blue streak, ' as our father put it. Recall
how at some point in that family hour, you withdrew
from the crowd of relatives and sat on the couch
with your two daughters: How the three of you talked
about things in your universe, inconsequential things
or things of utmost concern, back and forth. Call it
soul-talk or girl-talk or mother-daughter talk. You see
there are names for things like this. Because they partake
in the wonder of life, as we grow in time into our true selves.
I witnessed all of this from a proper distance, and finding
the right word deep within, I heaved it into consciousness.
That word is communion. And it announces a blessing
over you beyond any other value.

October 22,2016