sweetheart, don’t stutter.
I’ve been told: I’m brother’s sister,
prisoner to genetic code.
Born into the body
with a blueprint.
Since he went to high school
first, I became his last name
I wore with pride painted on
as a medal meaning people
might address me. Because
being in his shadow means
I’m at least a footnote now.
At work, I’m asked to leave for
the man in the back because
I can’t be the tech savvy one.
So I slip on a stage-play smile,
I’ve been told, I’m better
as a backdrop hum.
Maybe there’s a mason jar
where my mouth used to be.
Watch me carve apologies
into the cracks in my spine
until you’re uncomfortable
with my quiet.
Say it’s my fault
they shout girl
on the sidewalk, girl
why can’t you just keep
your head down? But didn’t I
bite the bullet?
Place the barrel
between my teeth?
America, bring me the bedtime
stories where my sister doesn’t
belong backstage.
Stop asking my mother what
her husband does; let it be
a sign of respect
when she keeps her last name.
America, I know you will teach
my daughter about her body
as a bruise, but
I won’t let you–
temper her tongue/tell her
it’s a tight-rope tied to her
skirt-length/that her brother
is the bright one, because
you find it safer to place her
in the form of fiction is written
on a page she’ll turn
Songofthesoftspoken 