by Siobhan Jean-Charles
Every day she untangles herself
from the sidewalks, sits in the library
with the sun spilling in her lap. She stacks
the novels into a skyline. At the bookstore,
I don’t think about how close the men
in worn wood chairs are, seats rubbed
smooth. I face windows, the exit past
the escalator, so much unseen behind me.
In the fever of July, my thighs and roller skate
scrapes are covered to my ankles. When the night
has paced outside, her father asks, where were you?
When we were younger, my brother would call me
his best friend. I would slip my thumb from my mouth.
No, leave me alone. My brother can fly
from the handlebars of his bike, his road rash
a stigmata peeling his palms, blood baptism
of a lovely, healthy, active kid. I have rollerskate
scrapes, and adults look at my fallen fruit knees
and ask what happened? My brother must have been
hungry then–my friends have brothers who turn
their locust appetites to the pantry and fridge,
leaving the bones of empty cartons. We leave
the house to catch the 6am bus. He won’t look
at me, and I hear him talk to me once a week–
cross here. When he graduates, everyone is surprised
we share the same last name. Matilda eats pancakes
for breakfast, for dinner there are watery mashed
potatoes and soft carrots. For me, cereal or hunger waits.
Before closing, I drink coffee to feel full, later sleep
to smother the echoes of my belly. In the night,
her brother shoves her away from the T.V.’s glow
and she falls out the front door. In the summer,
we become bad exiles–rattling our wagon across
train tracks, wading to our waists in switchgrass.
Siobhan Jean-Charles (she/her) is an MFA candidate at Arizona State University. Some of her poetry can be found or is forthcoming in Tinderbox Poetry Review, Furrow Literary Journal, The Tusculum Review, The Shore Poetry, where she is the blog editor, and others.
Hawaii Pacific Review 