We were all forged in fire,
some of us cooked longer than others
sizzling away in a *******
cast iron skillet,
popping and steaming.
It's sounds like the beginning of a gory old
Grimm's fairy tale, doesn't it?
We all cooked until
we were hard,
and cracked.
Stones,
dull in appearance
harsh in action.
But you,
you are soft.
You must have been born
with a map of the stars
printed on your eyelids,
and silver snowflakes
on the tip of your nose,
the smallest brother.
The air is thick with expectation.
The words people utter into
the atmosphere
all hang in the air like smoke.
We all live and breathe it.
Masculinity,
femininity,
not enough,
too much.
The expectation is in our blood.
But you,
you're laying on the ground,
below the smoke and toxins
on your back looking up at the sky,
and deciding for yourself
who it is you want to be.
Kitchen conversations
in the late weekend afternoon,
my hand pressing a damp washcloth
to your arm.
The summer had baked your cheeks
into a freckled pink,
we giggled together.
Off the washcloth came with a flourish
to reveal a pink
floral
scented temporary tattoo,
our forearms matched
in colorful decoration.
We wore them with pride
for a week,
until they faded.
You make me better, somehow.
The little things we do together,
my smallest brother
and I,
they make me better.
You've got a healing magic
in your lack of expectation,
your blind acceptance.
I think that's what the world needs,
Temporary tattoos
and magic.
For my little brother.
