Tonight's Poet Corner: Kin

Kin
by Belinda Roddie

I never got a younger sister, but if
I did, she'd have your eyes. She'd wear
her hair as short and bright as a blade. Her
leather jackets would be off the chain. I
never got a younger sister - two girls
born just eight minutes apart were more

than enough for my parents' arms. They
cradled the sleeping bundles with the gentleness
of angels. We were tucked away like seeds
in cushioned pots, with pillows to support
our growing stems, while we waited to sprout
into loud and obnoxiously dramatic flowers
of poetic justice! But if I had gotten a younger

sister, she'd have your smile, as wicked
and mischievous as a sorceress with her nose
inches away from the scalding mouth of
a cauldron. She'd be the one to fight off
the bullies from our siblings and me, not
the other way around. She'd cast spells with

just her words, and if the jinxes didn't work,
she'd use her fists instead. She'd leave holes in
steel without bruising her knuckles. She'd shirk
off religion like dead skin, stick her tongue out
at crucifixes around the altar, mock transubstantiation
by calling herself a Jesus vampire. Label Catholicism

as what it actually is: an ass-backwards dogma
with some nice rituals tossed into the salty soup bowl.
My younger sister would laugh at gender conformity.
She'd drive our parents nuts with her dating habits,
bring six girls home in two months, then take a boy
to prom just to fuck with their heads. She'd keep

rainbows on the inside of her cheeks because who
needs to show them off to be authentic? She
wouldn't go to Pride parades. She'd sneak bottles of
champagne into hotel rooms in San Francisco, howl
at the neon sponsors from the window while toasting
to the nihilism of public events. She wouldn't

care for actual romance - not unless it was
coupled with whiskey and beer, drinking both
of them underage and then deep-throating
peppermints to get the smell out of her soul. My
younger sister would probably eat pills like candy,
too. SSRIs, antidepressants, Geodon and Abilify,

anti-psychotics downed with vinegar in order to stave
off the serpents. Our parents would wish it were easier.
Suddenly, my own mood swings wouldn't seem so
much of a hassle anymore. Our siblings' issues would
be lovely walks in the park with the family dog. My
younger sister would roar at the walls closing in on

her because she'd hate the texture of flaking plaster.
She'd see faceless soldiers marching with wolves
on Sundays before church service. She wouldn't sleep
unless the moon was as thin as a fingernail's edge.
Listlessly, she'd hear dissonant music that no one
else would, and that she wouldn't wish for anyone

else to listen to in their free time. It'd just be too much.
And she wouldn't exactly fit in at family reunions.
She'd avoid Thanksgiving dinner by taking on two
jobs, snagging her high school diploma before she
aged quicker than the paper it was written on. She'd
kiss strangers at the auto shop where she'd work, then

pretend they didn't exist during her night shift
at the drugstore. She'd insist that we have nothing
in common. And I'd be inclined to agree, at least
at first. After all, I never was the wild one. None of us
in my little clan were. My brother's greatest risk in
life has been telling jokes without punchlines at family

outings, and my sister can't stop leaving footprints
on every stage in Philadelphia and New York. I
become feverish sometimes, and the keyboard
measures my thoughts out with a thermometer
and regulates the temperature. But you were always
lit on fire - and maybe you want it extinguished. You

want the imaginary quarrels in your head to go away,
and you'll never find writing to be as cathartic to you
as it might be to me. Still, you've been trying out
telling stories; maybe that's one thing we can share
besides an innate desire to scream at the stars when
we're angry. You're not my younger sister, and I never
got a younger sister. But if I did, she'd have your eyes.