Summer I was Six

The Summer I Was Six
my brother was five
and always wore a neon green hat.
I wore cut-off jean shorts
and hot pink canvas sneakers.
He was a cowboy on a broomstick horse
the garden hose, his lasso.
I didn’t know I was his target
until the metal tip broke my front tooth.
We played Ninja Turtles,
I always had to be April
because I was the girl.
I just wanted to be Raphael.
We were superheroes
with baby blanket capes,
our dog played too:
Super-Boy, Super-Girl, Super-Dog.
We had a Kool-aid and cookie stand.
We ran through the sprinkler for hours
and played marbles in the dirt.
My brother fell in a bike race,
I was the finish line.
Screaming, I ran to get Ma,
and he had to get staples in his head.
We played Sega Genesis
and Ma made us set a timer,
otherwise, he’d never let me play.
We spilled red paint on the carpet
and covered it so Ma wouldn’t find out.
Our hamster rolled down the stairs
in its purple plastic ball.
We laughed till it hurt,
and didn’t tell her about that either.
It was hot, Ma was pregnant and tired;
she couldn’t chase us as fast.
Our dog had puppies in the basement
and we watched through our fingers.
There were thirteen but three died.

We loved our baby sister more than the puppies.

©2009 Jes M Harmon