Siblings
I can remember raw eggs sat sweating in cups
dried scabs splitting into islands,
as we banged together our knees under the table
He was the older one but I the fiercer
Holes kicked through cheap chipboard, the door’s
tantrum-keepsakes. Spooning egg-spawn into
our guarded mouths, our stepdad’s shadow
watching that we taste every bite.
That same shadow which forced mum’s head down
the toilet, the shadow whose sister (“Auntie”
Jane with the red perm) made us eat vomit
from the wall and, whose younger brother
made me do something secret that time he babysat.
Families come in all shapes and sizes, they grow up.
My adult body burns, bearing two scars, barely visible.
Michéle Beck grew up and lives in Doncaster. She works as a Project Coordinator for Right up Our Street and is a creative writing facilitator.