The woman who spends an hour
every morning with her makeup
and her mirror is my sister.
The sister who can bear abuse
from her male boss is my friend.
I see us on the streets, faces set
to endure, and I see we do,
in pieces and in pain; we hold
our anger down with muscles
and a will that would rattle the world,
turned elsewhere. The fat woman
who makes her own clothes and takes
too much space on the bus is my lover.
Jean Sirius is *this* close to being eligible for Medicare (just before they gut it, naturally). She keeps a garden and bakes bread, which would astonish the people she went to high school with.