by Getty Images – Unsplash
by Joanna Theiss
“Scooch,” she says and squeezes next to me on the bench paralleling the field where our brothers play baseball. Hers will get picked for travel ball then all-state then college then he’ll pitch for the Fightin Phils then he’ll get called up to the majors and grown men in town will wear red jerseys with his name stitched on the back. Mine will meet a girl who will teach him how to soak a rag in spray paint, how to snort the fumes. Mine will quit baseball and burn his neon love for the girl into his skin. Mine will steal for her, break in pieces for her, crash against her, until his hot pink love for her swallows him whole, but for today we are little sisters watching our brothers play baseball and we are spitting black seeds into the grass. Not all of them will grow.
Joanna Theiss writes, collages, and admires backyard birds in Washington, DC. Find links to her flash, poetry and artwork at joannatheiss.com.
