Father's Day, my sister danced
in hyper whirls away

from a man who loved her.

Monday, a minor crash in Los Angeles

left her reeling. The message said
she'd been at her therapist's, come now.

I was afraid I was going to jump
out a window.

She left the apartment we shared
in the middle of the night

for Sikh gatherings at the Yoga Center.
After noon she chanted,

or twisted into Kundalini shapes that promised
to discharge anger, churn out fear, generate light.

She cooked yams with discs of ginger,
steamed greens and rice, drank gallons of water.

She cried old tears and stank
from releasing toxins.

I was afraid she expected too much,
as though enough meditation would deliver her

anew; afraid she would include me
among the things she purged, sold, discarded.