When you and I were ten you killed the baby.
I learned about it on the radio
on the way to a Power Rangers birthday party.
That night, I drank Coke with the sugar left in
and we girls ran little pink circles
around each other for hours, only coming together
to cut to pieces someone’s older brother.
Walking my little sister to school
the day after seeing you on the television,
I practised hardening my hands, tried picturing
her fingers as prison bars I had to break. For years
we would walk past a half-demolished home
the yard littered with stones like frags.
And for many days trying to feel the weight
of that brick in my hand
I developed imaginary calluses
Now you and I have grown up together,
but I’m still not at that point
where I can take your mind in mine,
feel that little hand you felt pulling away
and only tighten my grip in response.