When you were born,
Mom cussed the nurses.
They were nuns.
It was a Catholic hospital.
She swore at the nuns, for Chrissake.
You’ve told me this before, sister:
Mom thought the nurses
swapped me with a changeling:
ten pounds of thick, matted black hair;
Oriental eyes; olive skin—Baby Genghis, you called me.
Our usually holy mother screamed
That’s not my baby!
Where’s MY baby?
That one’s NOT mine!
Our father acknowledged my newborn plight:
She is a typical Ukrainian baby.
You always were a freak. Such a freak. All the time.
I know.
I know.
Believe me,
I know.
And I’m “strange.”
And I’m “weird.”
And I’m
any other mainstream adjective
littering your puerile tongue,
dear sister.
You’re nearly 30, and you’re not even married.
At least I have a husband.
I’m not sorry
you were the popular one.
I’m not sorry
the boys found you the prettiest.
I’m not sorry
that in six months
your husband will file for divorce
because he doesn’t love the way
you scream Stupid fucker!
after he spent twelve hours
working at the office, six days straight,
so that he could pay your five-grand-plus
credit card debt.
Why do you have to ruin everything?
Because, my dear sister,
I create disasters and dystopia
easily. With my fingertips,
I examine the rubble,
finding shards
you and everyone else
wouldn’t bother
searching for.