Big Sister

My father is the thick rind of a melon,

bitter armor warding off

a hungry girl with only her fingers

to cut with.

My mother I must scrape

like an unforgiving orange

cutting deep into my cuticles

and beneath my nails.

They play at ripeness and sneer

when I bite

but not you.

Not you, little grape that they made,

little round, bald, shiny grape.

They could stay up all night

trying to peel you, oh so

carefully with the edge of their teeth

to preserve the lump of sweetness

that is a new baby boy

while I wait red and bursting

like a ripe apple hidden in the leaves

of a forgotten tree.

For your greedy mouth

my father is the thick skin of the tangelo

and the fruit inside that sheds its peel

to offer you its sweetness.

To my mother you must only whine

and she will skin herself

to soothe your taste buds

with her last wedge of flesh,

forgetting that only a few seasons ago

my juicy gurgle made them coo

as if they themselves were babies

because beside a bundle like you

of no bruises and no words

I am rotten

and each day I grow

is another worm through my skin.

This poison is not for you,

but you must drink it

and make them cry that their ugly little apple

had such sickness in her seeds,

cry as if they were babies

when they have no babies left,

and sit alone with their hardened skins,

wishing they had birthed some other fruit.