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Description
My mother gave me this locket
on a day just like any other,
when she wandered through the house
with armfuls of towels clutched in front of her
and small, quiet steps
because my baby brother was sleeping.

She said anyone who could be as good a big sister as me
deserved a reward
and I just kept coloring,
while she slipped the gold chain around my neck.

Sometimes I wonder if it was some sort of cheap bribe
given to a six year old with a fistful of crayons
to placate her
into not caring that the new baby
was the favorite.

Sometimes, when I swish mouth wash
or spit toothpaste
and turn out my own light before bed,
I tell myself that she only kisses his forehead
and tucks him in because he's younger.
But I don't believe it.

Maybe it's because I liked to draw
murals on the walls
and color the dog with my paint-stained fingers
and make a mess
and "raise Hell"
while my brother stayed in the lines
and cooed on his sheepskin rug so that he could almost
be an angel.

Maybe she just wanted to give me something.

But I doubt it.

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night
and I make bread dough.
Sticky, tan stuff
that sticks to my fists where I punch it
and rises in the window
while I nap on the couch.

And I wake up in thirty minutes –
consistent like a clock –
and I put it in the heating oven.
The house smells like fresh bread.