Roughhousing, and It's not your birthday

Abstract

Roughhousing, and It's not your birthday Noah Baldino (bio) Roughhousing Had we known we were brothers when we fought, we might've let things go further, blotted our lips clean with sleeves after, hid together what we'd broken before Mom got home from work. I could've opened the freezer, pulled out two cuts of meat; we could've winced when we felt the relieving sting. It would've made us co-conspirators. But the brutality we had was the silence of who we were. We were never brothers. I ignored him at the table; he did his drugs alone. After whatever he did, what I pretend I can't remember—I kept (I keep) my cold. That night, I carried my covers across the hall for good; I left that room where boys can be forgiving if the final punch means blood. Now the closest thing I have to love is to have wished a briefer pain for us, unsure of what was mine, which was his: elbow, knee and knuckle, brow, my brother's cheek, my brother's jaw—our toothbrushes in the same cup on the sink. My bunk was above his. Mom always put [End Page 98] our names on the photo's back to tell which twin was which. We could've matched in bloody lips, in bruises, but I divided all our things. He could've stopped me with one heartfelt blow. Instead, I closed the door behind me. [End Page 99] It's not your birthday yet. We sing for me. I wish, without you,our candles out. I wantmy own but Mom says one womb one cake. Wait, what's a womb, you say. It's where babies waitbefore they're princesseslike you, and you; two manicured hands straighten our dollar-store tiaras. Do princeslive there too, youask. I dream my ballet flats wingtips to scuff up the tile. Mom's aglow as the waxwalks itself down its aisles.She twirls the cake on its dinner plate toward you, its chipped lip filled in with a perfect matchingmarker. I spot a smudge inthe petals around the piped-on daisy rim. We're in our puffy-shouldered dresses I keep tryingto unbunch. Yours, minebut yellow. Silk ribbons on the side. I deserve my own cake. I want my own life. Not two namestrapped in frilly scripts,icing vowels lift and loop. Dad gets the lights. You shut your eyes. Happy, they sing. I hiss. To you. [End Page 100] Noah Baldino Noah Baldino is a writer and editor. Their poems can be found in Poetry, Gulf Coast, Indiana Review, and elsewhere. They currently live in St. Louis. Copyright © 2020 Middlebury College Publications