Brother, Brother
by Lillian Morton
He might’ve been a specimen Aryan
but I inherited his end of the table.
My mother lowers her chin
and my father and I spar head from head.
I mimic a man’s knack
for decision, authority—I contend.
I am the onlyborn
so I am the son and daughter, too.
I am a sympathetic cuckoo;
I took my brother’s name
But I bleached my skin
my hair:
these are conversations
my mother and I can share.
I am comparable to a son, insecure
without control; I am the daughter who tends.
My brother might've been a better man.
Women: what else 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.
Think of him—homecoming
—accepting another pour, & I
his sister, seated in the middle, chin low:
sober. I’d feign ignorance
about my brother’s pale hand,
the wineglass swollen in his palm.
I’d restrain myself, my dread,
but even here, I’d be forced to admit:
He inherited my mother’s grip.