Brother, Brother
by Lillian Morton
— after Elizabeth
He might’ve been a specimen,
but I inherited his end of the table.
My mother low,
my father & I spar head to head.
This I stomach,
this I contend.
I am the onlyborn;
the son and daughter too.
A sympathetic cuckoo;
swallowing my brother’s name.
I’ve bleached my skin,
my hair:
these are conversations
my mother & I can share.
Within her:
the daughter who tends.
My brother might've been a better man—
[women,] what can be said?
I do not shoot, I have no hunt;
I can't even handle a skirt or a purse.
I compensate for either-or.
Yes yes
Mother, here I am.
He would accept another
homecoming pour;
glass
swollen in palm.
My head low;
a sister seated middle,
forced to admit,
He inherited our mother’s hands.