We say he’s my brother, but that is a lie. Fourteen,
yet I grew him inside of me. Now in Big Ugly,
it’s December-cold. My jacket is thin, streaked hair
uncombed, but, since momma says fresh air is
good, I have carried him out. He’s warm in
his blanket, warm against my chest. Yes, though
I know how he got in me, I will never tell.
There’s black in my nails from digging potatoes
or from diaper changing. So what? For me, no
cross-country, no art, no 8th grade swing dance.
I walk far and farther, will leave him in the manger
at the creekside church. He does not want to
be my brother, and I do not want one more boy in
the house. “Well…goodbye,” I tell him. “Have
a real good life, dude.” Then his eyes snap open. Then
he grabs hold of my scuzzy hair and will not let go.
