Scapegoat Child
In the crucible of our family my sister burned like molten steel. Once I saw her arms outspread her legs hanging limp and useless wet saliva dripping from her tongue. I screamed they surrounded her lifted her onto the sheets where she convulsed for hours traces of stain and guilt shattering her face my sister my sister cunning participant spectator victim inside the ugly family circle.
Her name was Josephine. No shortening to a rounder, softer sound like Josie or Jo was ever allowed her name was Josephine. Wide eyes alert for trouble a mouth that protruded too far lips too full for comfort. A skinny knock-kneed girl who stared so hard one day her eyes crossed locked and the full lips took on a slight tremor.
Her room was on the top floor a tiny place with a wooden ceiling that stared down at her. Yellow roses in her bedspread. A shiny dark floor at her feet. In the mornings she came to life early pounced awake before us ran to perch outside our door.
Her thin legs hop out of bed eyes crossed alert she slips down the stairs in the morning stillness. We are all asleep while she
