Snarl
Mine was a childhood of teeth.
Hands curled into fists,
nails into soft flesh.
Later they called it a friendly scrap
the kind siblings ought to have.
The violence was lost on them.
I, eight, and him, ten
were never friends.
We fought on the battlefield of the living room rug
The stairs of mountains and rivers of hallways.
Violence of a feral kind,
not for cause
not for hate
but for freedom.
In the short hours between school and dinner,
we fought for glory.
I was always dragged away first
Even eight, I was the lady
Not allowed to be a visceral creature,
made of hard sharp bones to dig into ribs and stomachs.
He, teenager, found new wars and
Came home with scabs the size of medals.
I braided hair and doodled across notebooks.
But
on a darkened street
in a heated exchange
with a flash of angry eyes
I feel the heat in my face--
I bare my teeth
And I am eight again.