Third Place Prize for poem “What Jacy Doesn’t Know” in the 2016 John G. Morris Poetry Contest

I believed you when you said you could talk

to the kitten, and it could understand

you. When you said my eyes would get stuck at

the back of my head if I rolled them at

you, I feared they would. I always wanted

to trade my boring browns for your ever-

changing green eyes. When you let me play with

your Barbies that one day, I borrowed that

pink, strapless top, and I never gave it

back. I despised you for making me be

the boy every single time we played “boy-

girl” outside in our dirt kitchen under

the trees. I longed to go on a date with

a boyfriend like yours who drove a white truck,

a pickup beat up and picnic-perfect.

I pretended to be offended when

you said I looked like a porcelain doll

after I put on my makeup for school.

I cried when I watched you back out of the

driveway and hit the road for Murray State,

leaving me to finish high school alone.

I’m actually fond of the times when

you mock me, saying, “Look at ‘The Beast’ in

her natural habitat.” At twenty

years old, I admire you like I did

when I was thirteen, watching you French braid

your own hair. I still watch you today, six

hours away, sitting at the front desk

of the Ramada Inn in Texas. I

see you when I look at a squirrel running

across the road. I can hear your eight-year-

old self yelling, “Mama! There’s a squirrel!” Two

seconds later, Mama is scolding you

for making her slam on the brakes. But I

am giggling because I am the good

little sister, with dimpled, chubby cheeks,

always quiet…Until Christmas morning

and I shake you awake at 6. Until

I snatch the last chicken nugget on the

plate of nuggets you microwaved yourself.

Until I use all the hot water, and

you’re next in line to shave your legs. You are

the big sister who loves me anyway.