Our mothers, sisters,
bled together in a hospital room
concerning our births, days apart.
Practically twins, we were brothers
in soul, though I was a girl
trying to run as fast as you
and soar with your thoughts flying.
You, the prescient one,
taught me that words are clay
while riding our bikes in the sunshine.
And when we pricked our fingers
with a straight pin from Grandma’s notions,
we pressed them to each other
as if our blood could get any closer.
© Sweepy Jean and Sweepy Jean Explores the (Webby) World, 2013