My Brother

My brother only talks to me when it's profitable
launching into fatherly lectures
punctuated by disdainful looks
when I offer an idea that wasn't his own
He won't be brought into conversation otherwise,
providing cursory one-word answers
only if it is socially unacceptable to stay silent.
But these are tumultuous times, I remind myself, in our youth
and they say family's the only thing that lasts.
He didn't grow out of nothing, to be sure;
my mother, the creative one
who battled imbalances in her brain
with words she didn't mean and wouldn't take back,
slammed doors and silences;
my father, the high school debater
whose senses of loyalty, honor and stubbornness
meant he could talk himself into accepting any situation
to a fault;
me, the impulsive dreamer
formulating a myriad of grandiose plans
that only rarely bear fruit
all the while toiling endlessly for someone else's benefit.
My brother doubtless sees it all and wants none of it,
building his walls higher and higher
till his empire will be a thing of glory high above the pit;
and I can scarcely imagine his frustration at having to
turn and look back
to speak now to ones who will soon be far beneath him.

I Don't Have To

I don't have to.
I don't have to let you buy me a drink.
I don't have to laugh in that shy, feminine way
as you feed me a line about what I want for breakfast tomorrow
I don't have to stare at you, feigning interest
as you tell me all about your ex girlfriends.
I don't have to agree to dance.
I don't have to let you put your hands around me,
reaching, touching, feeling, groping.
I don't have to let you kiss me,
because your breath smells like bourbon
and your tongue tastes like tobacco,
and anyway, I don't need a reason. I don't have to.
But I do.
That's what they told me, anyway.
They said, "Here's what a bad touch is" and "Here's what a condom is"
and "Here's how to say 'no'" and "Why are you still single?"
And my friends and I talk about how stupid the boys all are
and which ones we want to date;
and the lame ass shit he said, or what another one did
and how we wish we could get "a good one."
But we don't have to.
We don't have to get dressed up
in the skimpy clothes they wear in the magazines
and spend an hour primping our hair and applying our makeup.
We don't have to go out to the clubs,
borrowing fake IDs and stealing wristbands.
We don't have to. But we do.
Nobody told us there were any other options.
Paris Hilton never informed us.
Lindsay and Nicole never shared with us
that a club is full of dirty, sleazy guys
looking to score a date for the night
and naive young women
who don't know they don't have to.
They don't have to give out their phone numbers to whomever asks.
They don't have to try to say no in that nice, unsure way
that makes the guys think "yes."
They don't have to leave with a stranger,
only to call their friends in the morning
begging for a ride, giggling, groggy, shame-filled.
They don't have to.
But we tell them to.
We encourage the behavior with our reluctance,
our own past indiscretions, our lack of self-esteem.
We don't have to.
But we feel incomplete, incompetent, unworthy,
and we tell each other to feel the exact same way.

Soup

There's a war going on overseas
At least, that's what they're telling me
But my mom says, "Turn off the TV."
And I sigh and resist with my knees
But these are not pleas from her
These are words of warning
If I don't sit my butt down to dinner on the count of 3
I will have invoked a war stateside
And since I'd rather not have a sore behind
And since I get a free, homecooked meal otherwise,
I guess I'll oblige.
The microwave sounds and we all gather round the table
Clean and dressed, if we're able
And Dad gets out the ladle
And my brother begins to spoon it up.
And suddenly, it's been weeks since I've had anything to eat at all,
but that soup is like a fresh kill
And I have to wait for Travis to eat it all, while I grow ill?
"Give it here," I say greedily, reaching for the crockpot
Mom gives me a look like no manners I've got
But I don't care what I ought, I'm ravenous.
Gotta steal soup if I wanna eat after Travis
And it flows sloppily into my bowl
And I start immediately spooning it into my mouth, losing control
No longer do my tastebuds linger for fragrant flavors
I don't care to have my tongue do me any favors except swallow
I imagine the vegetables and noodles filling my stomach's hollows
As one spoonful gets raced down my throat, another follows
This, I think, is the best soup my lips have ever touched.
And I'd tell Mom and Dad as much
But there's no room for words what with broth, chicken and such.
As I near the bottom of my bowl and the spoon clacks
I reposition, jaw slacked
And I tip the bowl back to get every last drop.
Once the last dribbles are gone, down my throat or my chin
Satisfaction sets in
And I set the bowl down on the placemat, look around, and grin
Let out a big, exaggerated "aahhh" to let Mom, Dad, Travis,
the bowl of soup and my hunger know
That I win.