In response to your side-eyed looks, yes,
we are sisters. Twins, in fact, separated
at birth by twenty years. I’m the older.
She’s the newer, named Genesis because
Moms was so long in labor that she walked
mountain ridges from Honduras to L.A.
to raise this girl in an apartment
with a dusty backyard and chickens
she thought were pets.
A new beginning.
I was left
waiting in the desert
while all that happened.
You see her cheeks are darker than mine.
You see my short, straight hair incapable
of locks, braids, or ‘fro. She is an inner-city DJ
who sleeps to the sound of sirens.
I’m the Queen of Suburbia drowning
in lawnmowers and Pinot Grigio. Yes,
we are sisters. We see you
hungry for drama.
Who is jealous of whom?
Who wants more?
Who gets more?
Honesty is
uncomfortable. You think sisters
is blood. You keep vague
notions of love locked
in your hearts. You tell us
what we aren’t.
When we were kids, Moms
boiled cow tongue for our lunch.
I ate mine on white bread.
She ate hers in a corn tortilla.
That is what we fought over.
Cow tongue.
Tell us—
What is more sisters than that?
