Christ-Ann’s Room

at the end of our long corridor

adorned by spiritual imagery and Haitian art

my little sister’s door stays shut

whether she is home or not

perhaps to protect her pastoral refuge

from my father’s booming voice

and our mother’s nagging

sneak inside and you’ll find flickering lights strung up

amidst posters & pictures

& paintings under a plaque

pondering “Como se dice art?”

watercolor trees—

stains of brown-ish-watery streaks

hang above her locked windows

windex-washed but all light blocked

by heavy drapes

that never separate

but when they finally separate

or waste away

or perhaps just dissipate

she’ll find that her watercolor trees

stains of brownish-watery streaks

are simple renditions

of the rough bark of real trees;

what flickering lights are to fireflies

what her fan is to the summer breeze

what her ceramic shells are to the real deal

found by combing through the warm sand at the beach.