I Was Raised Like This

I think of my sister—

older, sly, always vicious:

"Life is a bitch. Then you marry one,"

she told everyone.

Lately,

gone to fat from pills and illness,

lost in fear,

she slams and slurs

the Other (the boss, the Mexicans)

that would steal her life.

Raised out of sight of absentee parents,

she saved me twice:

pulled me choking from a pool,

harassed me into rehab.

Twenty years of sobriety

and I haven't spoken to her in ten.

Stoned on pain meds, she argued

"You owe me," in our last conversation.

I cursed the lie, hung up the phone.

I owe no debt to family.

I paid my dues at birth.