I told my big brother that I hated him
because he threw sand in my face on the beach in Sydney
it stung and made me cry. He was seven, I was five.

Later we raced from the top of the beach where our mother lay
on a polka dot beach towel, sun-browned as a berry,
to the fringe of the shore where the sea foam was a bubble bath
–  the sky looks like a Greek flag, it’s so blue and white.
splashed me, shouting
–  do you still hate me?
I laughed
– yes!

When he rose in one big gulp from under the surface of water
his lips and raisin-wrinkled finger tips were tinged  blue
rosy streaks slashed across his belly
like he was ******* with poisoned red string.

I tugged on my mother’s sun dress, anxious
– Is he going to die?
– No it was only a baby one, it will do him no harm
–Am I allowed to see him?
–He’ll be out before the sun goes down
–Will you tell him I don’t hate him and it’s okay that he threw sand in my face?